"Well, me for the feathers.
We're going to be kept humping to-morrow. _Buenas noches_."
In a few minutes the big ranch house was dark and quiet; every person
in it was sound asleep.
Ted Strong had sunk into a deep and untroubled sleep, for his day had
been very active, and he was tired when he lay down.
But he had not been sleeping more than a half hour when he found himself
sitting straight up in bed, very wide-awake, and wondering why.
"Something wrong in the house," he muttered to himself.
He sniffed the air to discover the smell of smoke. But it was not that.
Had he locked up? He went over his actions just before retiring, and was
sure that he had attended faithfully to everything.
The money! The thought came to him like a blow.
Something had happened to the money.
He was out of bed in a jiffy and slipped into his trousers, and,
grabbing his revolver from beneath his pillow, he opened the door and
walked softly along the hall in his bare feet.
The hall opened into the living room through an arch in which a
portiere, made of small pieces of bamboo strung together, was hung.
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