they get stuck on him. Never trust a woman that’s in love!”
“Mr. Kilpatrick!”
Nancy Derwent’s indignant exclamation caused the deputy to flounder for a moment in attempting to explain that he had misquoted his own sentiments, and then he went on with the translation:
“She says she’s willing to take his place in the jail if you’ll let him out. She says she was down sick with the fever, and the doctor said she’d die if she didn’t have medicine. That’s why he passed the lead dollar on the drug store. She says it saved her life. This Rafael seems to be her honey, all right; there’s a lot of stuff in her talk about love and such things that you don’t want to hear.”
It was an old story to the district attorney.
“Tell her,” said he, “that I can do nothing. The case comes up in the morning, and he will have to make his fight before the court.”
Nancy Derwent was not so hardened. She was looking with sympathetic interest at Joya Trevifias and at Littlefield alternately. The deputy repeated the district attorney’s words to the girl. She spoke a sentence or two in a low voice, pulled her shawl closely about her: face, and left the room.
“What did she say then?” asked the district attorney.
“Nothing special,” said the deputy. “She said: ‘If the life of the one’—let’s see how it went—‘Si la vida
