Apart from this sum of money carried in the pocket of her riding skirt, she had found various odd sums stored away in the handbags that had been sent to her with her clothes from the yacht.

Altogether it had come to ninety-seven dollars and Skye could only pray that with her wristwatch it was enough to tempt the young Indian to brave the wrath of El Diablo and to compensate him for being exiled from the camp.

There was no chance of further conversation with him for El Diablo’s other servant, an older man who had been with him for many years, came into the room and, when he left, the young Indian went with him.

If only this plan could succeed!

Skye moved restlessly about the cave and was wondering if she had made her instructions clear enough to Captain Maclean. He was to wireless to Jimmy and to go in person to the Police and speak to General Alejo. She drew a quick breath of excitement. What it would mean to be free again, to be safe in her own yacht and to be able to sail away from Mariposa and from El Diablo!

She had looked at herself in the mirror that morning and wondered why all that she was experiencing had left so little mark on her face. She was, it was true, thinner, but that enhanced her beauty rather than detracted from it.

She was also, although she hated to admit it, extremely well in health. The long hours in the saddle, far from tiring her, seemed only to sweep away the softness of over-luxuriant living.

She had thought, for one wild moment, of going on a hunger strike, but when food was put before her, she was so hungry that she knew she had not the strength of will to refuse the delicious dishes that the French chef managed to cook on an oil stove with the skill of an artist.

“Why has such an exceptional cook come here?” Skye asked El Diablo one evening after a dinner that seemed to her to excel everything she had ever eaten in Paris.

“Alphonse had to leave Jācara in a hurry,” El Diablo replied. “He was chef to a rich and distinguished family, but one evening after too much wine he used his carving knife on one of his fellow servants.”

“And killed him?” Skye enquired.

“I am afraid so. A murderer like myself. There are a number of them in the camp.”

He was deliberately baiting her, but Skye had grown wiser.

“I cannot believe that a man who can make a soufflé like this could murder anyone except accidentally,” she said.

“Your kind heart does you credit,” El Diablo said sarcastically.

She had learned to be silent when he was rude to her. Sometimes she wondered if she could indeed be Skye Standish who would hear in silence an insult and let it pass.