Long is their conference on that ride. Pere Francois is thoughtful, as he spends his evening hour at dominoes with Aristide Dauvray. His eyes stray to fair Louise, busied with her needie. At last, he has a man of the world to lean on, in tracing up this child's parentage. Raoul and Armand are deep in schemes to enrich Joe's queer collection, the nucleus of that "bachelor ranch," "Ophir Villa."

In all the bravery of diamonds and goldsmithing the Westerner descends from his carriage, at the doors of Madame de Santos, next day.

Pale-faced, aristocratic Pere Francois is a foil to the "occidental king." Mind and matter.

Waiting for the Donna, the gentlemen admire her salon.

Pictures, objets d'art, dainty bibelots, show the elegance of a queen of the "monde."

"Beats a steamboat," murmurs Colonel Joe, as the goddess enters the domain.

There is every grace in her manner. She inquires as to mutual friends of the "Southern set." Her praises of Raoul are justified in the beautiful bust, a creation of loveliness, on its Algerian onyx pedestal.

Colonel Joe Woods is enchanted. He wonders if he has ever seen this classic face before.

"I drive in the Bois," says madame, with an arch glance.

She knows the Californian is a feature of that parade, with his team. Paris rings with Colonel Joe's exploits.

"No poor stock for me," is Colonel Joe's motto.

With a cunning glance in his eyes, the miner asks: "Were you ever in California, madame?"

Her lips tremble as she says, "Years ago I was in San Francisco."

Colonel Joe is thoughtful. His glance follows madame, who is ringing a silver bell.

The butler bows.

"I shall not drive this afternoon," she says.

With graceful hospitality, she charms Pere Francois. Chat about the Church and France follows.

The gentlemen are about to take their leave. Madame de Santos, observing that Pere Francois speaks Spanish as well as French, invites him to call again. She would be glad to consult him in spiritual matters.

Colonel Joe speaks of California, and asks if he may be of any service.

"I have no interests there," the lady replies with constraint.

Passing into the hall, Pere Francois stands amazed as if he sees a ghost.

"What's the matter, padre?" queries Colonel Joe as they enter their carriage.

"Did you see that maid who passed us as we left the salon?" remarks the padre.

"Yes, and a good-looking woman too," says the Californian.

"That woman is the guardian of Louise Moreau," the padre hastily replies.

"Look here! What are you telling me?" cries the Colonel.

"There's some deviltry up! I'm sorry I must leave. But how do you know?" he continues.

The priest tells him about artful Josephine, whose womanly curiosity has been piqued. He has seen this person on her visits. Useless to trace her. Entering an arcade or some great shop, she has baffled pursuit. Through the Bois, the friends commune over this mystery.

"I'll fix you out," says Woods, with a shout. "I've got a fellow here who watched some people for me on a mining deal. I'll rip that household skeleton all to pieces. We'll dissect it!"

He cries: "Now, padre, I'm a-going to back you through this affair," as they sit in his rooms over a good dinner. Colonel Joe has sent all his people away. He wants no listeners. As he pours the Cliquot, he says, "You give me a week and I'll post you. Listen to me. You can see there is an object in hiding that child. Keep her safely guarded. Show no suspicion. You make friends with the lady. Leave the maid dead alone. Take it easy, padre; we'll get them. I'll tell my bankers to back you up. I'll take you down; I'll make you solid.

"All I fear is they will get frightened and take her off. You people have got to watch her. They'll run her off, if they suspect. Poor little kid.

"It's strange," says the miner; "they could have put this poor little one out of the way easy. But they don't want that. Want her alive, but kept on the quiet. I suppose there's somebody else," he mutters.

"By Jove! that's it. There's property or money hanging on her existence. Now, padre, I'll talk plain. You priests are pretty sly. You write your people about this child. I'll see you have money. My banker will work the whole municipality of Paris for you.

"That's it; we've got it." The miner's fist makes the glasses rattle, as he quaffs his wine.

"Don't lose sight of her a minute. Don't show your hand."

The priest rolls home in Joe's carriage. He busies himself the next days with going to the bank, conferring with his fellows, and awaking the vigilance of Josephine.

It is left to the priest and his ally from the ranks of "Mammon" to follow these tangled threads. The younger men know nothing, save the injunctions to Josephine.

Ten days after this visit, Colonel Joe, who has run over to London, where he closed some financial matters of note, sends post-haste to Pere Francois this note:

"Come up, padre. I've got a whole history for you. It will make your eyes open. I want you to talk to the detective."

Even the Californian's horses are not quick enough to-day for the priest.

Ushered in, he finds Colonel Joe on the broad grin.

Accepting a cigar, his host cries, "We've struck it rich. A mare's nest. Now, Vimont, give my friend your report."

Joe Woods smokes steadily, as Jules Vimont reads from his note-book:

"Madame Natalie de Santos arrived in Paris with two young girls, one of whom is at the Sacre-Coeur under the name of Isabel Valois; the other is the child who is visited by Marie Berard, her maid. She is called Louise Moreau."

Pere Francois listens to this recital. The detective gives a description of the beautiful stranger, and at length.

Joe interrogates. The priest gravely nods until the recital is finished. Vimont shuts his book with a snap and disappears, at a nod from the miner. The friends are alone.

Pere Francois is silent. His face is pale. Joe is alarmed at his feeling. Forcing a draught of Bourbon on the padre, Joe cries, "What is the matter?"

"I see it now," murmurs the priest. "The children have been changed. For what object?"

He tells Woods of the proofs gained in days of Louise's illness.

"Your little friend is the heiress of Lagunitas?" Woods asks.

"I am sure of it. We must prove it."

"Leave that to me," bursts out Joe, striding the room, puffing at his cigar.

"How will you do it?" falters the priest.

"I will find the father of the other child," Joe yells. "I am going to California. I will root up this business. I have a copy of Vimont's notes. You write me all you remember of this history. Meanwhile, not a word. No change in your game. You make foothold in that house on the Elysees.

"There was no railroad when these people came here. I will get the lists of passengers and steamer reports, I have friends in the Pacific Mail."

Joe warms up. "Yes, sir. I'll find who is responsible for that extra child. The man who is, is the party putting up for all this splendor here. I think if I can stop the money supplies, we can break their lines. I think my old 'companero,' Judge Hardin, is the head-devil of this deal.

"It's just like him.

"Now, padre, I have got something to amuse me. You do just as I tell you, and we'll checkmate this quiet game.

"We are not on the bedrock yet, but we've struck the vein. Don't you say a word to a living soul here.

"I'll have that maid watched, and tell Vimont to give you all the particulars of her cuttings-up.

"She's not the master-mind of this. She has never been to the convent. There's a keynote in keeping these girls apart. I think our handsome friend, Madame de Santos, is playing a sharp game." In two days he has vanished.

In his voyage to New York and to the Pacific, Joe thinks over every turn of this intrigue. If Hardin tries to hide Armand Valois' fortune, why should he dabble in the mystery of these girls?

Crossing the plains, where the buffalo still roam by thousands, Woods meets in the smoking-room many old friends. A soldierly-looking traveller attracts his attention. The division superintendent makes Colonel Peyton and Colonel Woods acquainted. Their friendship ripens rapidly. Joe Woods, a Southern sympathizer, has gained his colonelcy by the consent of his Western friends. It is a brevet of financial importance. Learning his friend is a veteran of the "Stars and Bars," and a Virginian, the Westerner pledges many a cup to their common cause. To the battle-torn flag of the Confederacy, now furled forever.

As the train rattles down Echo Canyon, Peyton tells of the hopes once held of a rising in the West.

Woods is interested. When Peyton mentions "Maxime Valois," the Croesus grasps his hand convulsively.

"Did you serve with him?" Joe queries with eagerness. "He was my pardner and chum."

"He died in my arms at Peachtree Creek," answers Peyton.

Joe embraces Peyton. "He was a game man, Colonel."

Peyton answers: "The bravest man I ever saw. I often think of him, in the whirl of that struggle for De Gress's battery. Lying on the sod with the Yankee flag clutched in his hand, its silk was fresh-striped with his own heart's blood. The last sound he heard was the roar of those guns, as we turned them on the enemy."

"God! What a fight for that battery!" The Californian listens, with bated breath, to the Virginian. He tells him of the youthful quest for gold.

The war brotherhood of the two passes in sad review. Peyton tells him of the night before Valois' death.

Joe Woods' eyes glisten. He cries over the recital. An eager question rises to his lips. He chokes it down.

As Peyton finishes, Woods remarks:

"Peyton, I am going to get off at Reno, and go to Virginia City. You come with me. I want to know about Valois' last days."

Peyton is glad to have a mentor in the West. He has gained neither peace nor fortune in wandering under the fringing palms of Latin America.

Toiling up the Sierra Nevada, Woods shows Peyton where Valois won his golden spurs as a pathfinder.

"I have a favor to ask of you, Peyton," says Joe. "I want to hunt up that boy in Paris. I'm no lawyer, but I think he ought to have some of this great estate. Now, Hardin is a devil for slyness. I want you to keep silent as to Valois till I give you the word. I'll see you into some good things here. It may take time to work my game. I don't want Hardin to suspect. He's an attorney of the bank. He counsels the railroad. He would spy out every move."

"By the way, Colonel Woods," Peyton replies, "I have the papers yet which were found on Valois' body. I sealed them up. They are stained with his blood. I could not trust them to chances. I intended to return them to his child. I have never examined them."

Joe bounds from his seat. "A ten-strike! Now, you take a look at them when we reach 'Frisco.' If there are any to throw a light on his affairs, tell me. Don't breathe a word till I tell you. I will probe the matter. I'll break Hardin's lines, you bet." The speculator dares not tell Peyton his hopes, his fears, his suspicions.

San Francisco is reached. Peyton has "done the Comstock." He is tired of drifts, gallery, machinery, miners, and the "laissez-aller" of Nevada hospitality. The comfort of Colonel Joe's bachelor establishment places the stranger in touch with the occidental city.

Received with open arms by the Confederate sympathizers, Peyton is soon "on the stock market." He little dreams that Joe has given one of his many brokers word to carry a stiff account for the Virginian. Pay him all gains, and charge all losses to the "Woods account."

Peyton is thrilled with the stock gambling of California Street. Every one is mad. Servants, lawyers, hod carriers, merchants, old maids, widows, mechanics, sly wives, thieving clerks, and the "demi-monde," all throng to the portals of the "Big Board." It is a money-mania. Beauty, old age, callow boyhood, fading manhood, all chase the bubble values of the "kiting stocks."

From session to session, the volatile heart of San Francisco throbs responsive to the sliding values of these paper "stock certificates."

Woods has departed for a fortnight, to look at a new ranch in San Joaquin. He does not tell Peyton that he lingers around Lagunitas. He knows Hardin is at San Francisco. A few hours at the county seat. A talk with his lawyer in Stockton completes Joe's investigations. No will of Maxime Valois has ever been filed. The estate is held by Hardin as administrator after "temporary letters" have been renewed. There are no accounts or settlements. Joe smiles when he finds that Philip Hardin is guardian of one "Isabel Valois," a minor. The estate of this child is nominal. There is no inventory of Maxima Valois' estate on file. County courts and officials are not likely to hurry Judge Philip Hardin.

On the train to San Francisco, Woods smokes very strong cigars while pondering if he shall hire a lawyer in town.

"If I could only choose one who would STAY bought when I BOUGHT> him, I'd give a long price," Joe growls. With recourse to his great "breast-pocket code," the Missourian runs over man after man, in his mind. A frown gathers on his brow.

"If I strike a bonanza, I may have to call in some counsel. But I think I'll have a few words with my friend Philip Hardin."

Woods is the perfection of rosy good-humor, when he drags Hardin away from his office next day to a cosey lunch at the "Mint."

"I want to consult you, Judge," is his excuse. Hardin, now counsel for warring giants of finance, listens over the terrapin and birds, to several legal posers regarding Joe's affairs. Woods has wide influence. He is a powerful friend to placate. Hardin, easy now in money matters, looks forward to the United States Senate. Woods can help. He is a tower of strength.

"They will need a senator sometime, who knows law, not one of those obscure MUD-HEADS," says Hardin to himself.

Colonel Joe finishes his Larose. He takes a stiff brandy with his cigar, and carelessly remarks:

"How's your mine, Judge?"

"Doing well, doing well," is the reply.

"Better let me put it on the market for you. You are getting old for that sort of bother."

"Woods, I will see you by and by. I am trustee for the Valois estate. He left no will, and I can't give a title to the ranch till the time for minor heirs runs out. So I am running the mine on my own account. Some outside parties may claim heirship."

"Didn't he leave a daughter?" says Woods.

"There is a girl—she's East now, at school; but, between you and me, old fellow, I don't know if she is legitimate or not. You know what old times were."

Colonel Joe grins with a twinge of conscience. He has had his "beaux-jours."

"I will hold on till the limitation runs out. I don't want to cloud the title to my mine, with litigation. It comes through Valois."

"You never heard of any Eastern heirs?" Joe remarks, gulping a "stiffener" of brandy.

"Never," says Hardin, reaching for his hat and cane. "The Judge died during the war. I believe his boy died in Paris. He has never turned up. New Orleans is gone to the devil. They are all dead."

"By the way, Judge, excuse me." Woods dashes off a check for Hardin. "I want to retain you if the 'Shooting Star' people fool with my working the 'Golden Chariot;' I feel safe in your hands."

Even Hardin can afford to pocket Joe's check. It is a prize. Golden bait, Joseph.

Woods says "Good-bye," floridly, to his legal friend. He takes a coupe at the door. "Cute old devil, Hardin; I'll run him down yet," chuckles the miner. Joe is soon on his way to the Pacific Mail Steamship office.

Several gray-headed officials greet the popular capitalist.

He broaches his business. "I want to see your passenger lists for 1865." He has notes of Vimont's in his hand. While the underlings bring out dusty old folios, Joe distributes his pet cigars. He is always welcome.

Looking over the ancient records he finds on a trip of the Golden Gate, the following entries:

Madame de Santos, Miss Isabel Valois, Marie Berard and child.

He calls the bookkeeper. "Can you tell about these people?"

The man of ink scans the entry. He ponders and says:

"I'll tell you who can give you all the information, Colonel Joe. Hardin was lawyer for this lady. He paid for their passages with a check. We note these payments for our cash references. Here is a pencil note: 'CK Hardin.' I remember Hardin coming himself."

"Oh, that's all right!" says the Argonaut.

An adjournment of "all hands," to "renew those pleasing assurances," is in order.

"Ah, my old fox!" thinks Woods. "I am going to find out who gave Marie Berard that other child. But I won't ask YOU. YOUR TIME IS TOO VALUABLE, Judge Philip Hardin."

He gives his driver an extra dollar at the old City Hall.

Joe Woods thinks he is alone on the quest. He knows not that the Archbishop's secretary is reading some long Latin letters, not three blocks away, which are dated in Paris and signed Francois Ribaut. They refer to the records of the Mission Dolores parish. They invoke the aid of the all-seeing eye of the Church as to the history and rights of Isabel Valois.

Pere Ribaut humbly begs the protection of his Grace for his protege, Armand Valois, in case he visits California.

Philip Hardin, in his office, weaving his golden webs, darkened here and there with black threads of crime, is deaf to the cry of conscience. What is the orphaned girl to him? A mere human puppet. He hears not the panther feet of the avengers of wrong on his trail. Blind insecurity, Judge Hardin.

Woods has seized Captain Lee, and taken him out of his sanctum to the shades of the "Bank Exchange."

The great detective captain, an encyclopedia of the unwritten history of San Francisco, regards Woods with a twinkle in his gray eye. The hunted, despairing criminal knows how steady that eye can be. It has made hundreds quail.

Lee grins over his cigar. Another millionaire in trouble. "Some woman, surely." The only question is "What woman?"

The fair sex play a mighty part in the mysteries of San Francisco.

"Lee, I want you to hunt up the history of a woman for me," says the old miner.

The captain's smile runs all over his face. "Why, Colonel Joe!" he begins.

"Look here; no nonsense!" says Joseph, firmly. "It's a little matter of five thousand dollars to you, if you can trace what I want."

There is no foolishness in Lee's set features. He throws himself back, studying his cigar ash. That five thousand dollars is an "open sesame."

"What's her name?"

Joseph produces his notes.

"Do you remember Hardin sending some people to Panama, in '65?" begins the Colonel. "Two women and two children. They sailed on the GOLDEN GATE."

"Perfectly," says the iron captain, removing his cigar. "I watched these steamers for the government. He was a Big Six in the K.G.C., you remember, Colonel Joe?"

Joe winces; that Golden Circle dinner comes back, when he, too, cheered the Stars and Bars.

"I see you do remember," says Lee, throwing away his cigar. "Now be frank, old man. Tell me your whole game."

Woods hands him the list of the passengers. He is keenly eying Lee.

"Who was that Madame de Santos?" he says eagerly.

"Is it worth five thousand to know?" says the detective, quietly.

"On the dead square," replies Joe, "Cash ready."

"Do you remember the 'Queen of the El Dorado'?" Lee simply says.

"Here! Great God, man!" cries Lee, for Joe Woods' fist comes down on the table. Flying cigars, shattered glasses, and foaming wine make a rare havoc around.

"By God!" shouts the oblivious Joe," the woman Hardin killed 'French Charlie' for."

"The same," says Lee, steadily, as he picks some splintered glass out of his goatee. "Joe, you can add a suit of clothes to that check."

"Stop your nonsense," says the happy Joe, ringing for the waiter to clear away the wreck of his cyclonic fist. "The clothes are O.K."

"Where did she come from to take that boat?" demands Woods.

"From Hardin's house," says Lee.

A light breaks in on Colonel Joe's brain.

"And that woman with her?"

"Was her maid, who stayed with her from the time she left the El Dorado, and ran the little nest on the hill. The mistress never showed up in public."

"And the child who went with the maid?" Joe's voice trembles.

"Was Hardin's child. Its mother was the 'Queen of the El Dorado.'"

Woods looks at Lee.

"Can you give me a report, from the time of the killing of 'French Charlie' down to the sailing?"

"Yes, I can," says the inscrutable Lee.

"Let me have it, to-morrow morning. Not a word to Hardin."

"All right, Colonel Joe," is the answer of silent Lee.

Joseph chokes down his feelings, orders a fresh bottle of wine, some cigars, and calls for pen and ink.

While the waiter uncorks the wine, Joe says: "What do you pay for your clothes, Lee?"

"Oh, a hundred and fifty will do," is the modest answer. "That carries an overcoat."

Joe laughs as he beautifies a blank check with his order to himself, to pay to himself, five thousand one hundred and fifty dollars, and neatly indorses it, "Joseph Woods." "I guess that's the caper, Captain," he says. This "little formality" over, the wine goes to the right place THIS TIME.

"Now I don't want to see you any more till I get your reminiscences of that lady," remarks Joe, reaching for his gold-headed club.

"On time, ten o'clock," is the response of the police captain.

"Have you seen her since, Joe? She was a high stepper," muses the Captain. He has been a great connoisseur of loveliness. Many fair ones have passed under his hands in public duty or private seance.

"That's my business," sturdy Joe mutters, with an unearthly wink. "You give me back my check, old man, and I'll tell you what I know."

Lee laughs. "I'm not so curious, Colonel."

They shake hands, and the gray old wolf goes to his den to muse over what has sent Joe Woods on a quest for this "fallen star."

Lee wastes no time in mooning. The check is a "pleasing reality." The memories of Hortense Duval are dearer to Joe than to him. His pen indites the results of that watchful espionage which covers so many unread leaves of private life in San Francisco.

There is an innocent smile on Woods' face when he strolls into his own office and asks Peyton to give him the evening in quiet. Strongly attracted by the Virginian, Woods has now a double interest in his new friend.

In the sanctum, Woods says, "Peyton, I am going to tell you a story, but you must first show me the papers you have kept so long of poor Valois."

Peyton rises without a word. He returns with a packet.

"Here you are, Woods. I have not examined them yet. Now, what is it?"

"You told me Valois made a will before he died, Peyton," begins Woods.

"He did, and wrote to Hardin. He wrote to the French priest at his ranch."

Woods starts. "Ha, the damned scoundrel! Go on; go on." Joe knows Pere Francois never got that letter. "I read those documents. His letter of last wishes to Hardin. When I was in Havana, I found Hardin never acknowledged the papers."

Woods sees it all. He listens as Peyton tells the story.

"We have to do with a villain," says Joe. "He destroyed the papers or has hidden them. Colonel, open this packet." Joe's voice is solemn.

With reverent hand, Peyton spreads the papers before the miner. There are stains upon them. Separating them, he arranges them one by one. Suddenly he gives a gasp.

"My God! Colonel Joe, look there!"

Woods springs to his side.

It is a "message from the dead."

Yes, lying for years unread, between the last letters of his wife and the tidings of her death, is an envelop addressed:

Major Henry Peyton, Fourteenth Louisiana Inf'y, C.S.A."

Tears trickle through Peyton's fingers, as he raises his head, and breaks the seal.

"Read it, Major," says Woods huskily. He is moved to the core of his heart. It brings old days back.

Peyton reads:

Atlanta—In the field, July 21, 1864.

My Dear Peyton:—I am oppressed with a strange unrest about my child! I do not fear to meet death to-morrow. I feel it will take me away from my sadness. I am ready. Our flag is falling. I do not wish to live to see it in the dust. But I am a father. As I honor you, for the brotherhood of our life together, I charge you to watch over my child. Hardin is old; something might happen to him. I forgot a second appointment in the will; I name you as co-executor with him. Show him this. It is my dying wish. He is a man of honor. I have left all my estate to my beloved child, Isabel Valois. It is only right; the property came by my marriage with my wife, her dead mother. In the case of the death of my child, search out the heirs of Judge Valois and see the property fairly divided among them. Hardin is the soul of honor, and will aid you in all. I desire this to be a codicil to my will, and regarded as such. I could not ask you to ride out again for me this wild night before my last battle.

The will you witnessed, is the necessary act of the death of my wife. If you live through the war, never forget

Your friend and comrade, MAXIME VALOIS.

P.S. If you go to California, look up Joe Woods. He is as true a man as ever breathed, and would be kind to my little girl. Padre Francisco Ribaut married me at Lagunitas to my Dolores. Good-bye and good-night. M.V.

The men gaze at each other across the table, touched by this solemn voice sweeping down the path of dead years. That lonely grave by the lines of Atlanta seemed to have opened to a dead father's love. Peyton saw the past in a new light. Valois' reckless gallantry that day was an immolation. His wife's death had unsettled him.

Joe Woods' rugged breast heaved in sorrow as he said, "Peyton, I will stand by that child. So help me, God! And he thought of me at the last—he thought of me!" The old miner chokes down a rising sob. Both are in tears.

"Look here, Colonel!" said Woods briskly. "This will never do! You will want to cheer up a little, for your trip, you know."

"Trip?" says the wondering Virginian.

"Why, yes," innocently remarks Joseph Woods. "You are going to New Orleans to look up about the Valois boy. Then you are to see those bankers at Havana, and get proof before the Consul-General about the documents. I want you to send your affidavit to me. I've got a lawyer in New York, who is a man. I'll write him. You can tell him all. I'm coming on there soon. After you get to New York from Havana, you will go to Paris and stay there till I come."

Peyton smiles even in his sadness. "That's a long journey, but I am yours, Colonel. Why do I go to Paris?"

"You are going to answer the letter of that dead man," impressively remarks Joseph.

"How?" murmurs Peyton.

"By being a father to his lonely child and watching over her. There's two girls there. You can keep an eye on them both. I'll trap this old scoundrel here. You've got to leave this town. He might suspect YOU when I start MY machinery.

"I'll plow deep here. I'll meet you in New York. Now, I want you to take to-morrow's train. I'll run your stock account, Colonel Henry," Woods remarks, with a laugh.

The next day, Peyton speeds away on his errand after receiving the old miner's last orders. His whispered adieu was: "I'm going to stand by my dead pardner's kid, for he thought of me at the last."



CHAPTER XVII.

WEAVING SPIDERS.—A COWARD BLOW.—MARIE BERARD'S DOOM.



Peyton's good-bye rings in Woods' ears as the train leaves. The boxes and parcels forced on the Confederate veteran, are tokens of his affection. The cognac and cigars are of his own selection. Joe's taste in creature comforts is excellent, and better than his grammar.

On the ferry, Joe surveys San Francisco complacently from the steamer.

"I've got those documents in the vaults. I'll have Peyton's evidence. I rather fancy Captain Lee's biography will interest that dame in Paris. I will prospect my friend Hardin's surroundings. He must have some devil to do his dirty work. I will do a bit of 'coyote work' myself. It's a case of dog eat dog, here."

Joseph classes all underhand business as "coyote work." He appreciates the neatness with which that furtive Western beast has taken his boots, soap, his breakfast and camp treasures under his nose.

Invincible, invisible, is the coyote.

"By Heavens! I'll make that old wolf Hardin jump yet!" Joseph swears a pardonable oath.

After writing several telling letters to the Padre and Vimont, he feels like a little stroll. He ordered Vimont to guard Louise Moreau at any cost. "No funny business," he mutters.

"If she's the girl, that scoundrel might try to remove her from this world," thinks Joseph. "As for the other girl, he's got a tiger cat to fight in the 'de Santos.'"

Colonel Woods beams in upon the clerks of Judge Hardin. That magnate is absent. The senatorial contest is presaged by much wire-pulling.

"I don't see the young man who used to run this shebang," carelessly remarks the Croesus.

"Mr. Jaggers is not here any longer," smartly replies his pert successor, to whom the fall of Jaggers was a veritable bonanza.

"What's the matter with him?" says Woods. "I wanted him to do a job of copying for me."

The incumbent airily indicates the pantomime of conveying the too frequent Bourbon to his lips.

"Oh, I see! The old thing," calmly says Woods. "Fired out for drinking."

The youth nods. "He is around Montgomery Street. You 'most always will catch him around the 'old corner' saloon."

Joseph Woods is familiar with that resort of bibulous lawyers. He wanders out aimlessly.

While Barney McFadden, the barkeeper, surveys Colonel Joseph swallowing his extra cocktail, he admires himself in the mirror. He dusts off his diamond pin with a silk handkerchief.

"Jaggers! Oh, yes; know him well. In back room playing pedro. Want him?"

Woods bows. The laconic Ganymede drags Jaggers away from his ten-cent game.

Impelled by a telegraphic wink, Barney deftly duplicates the favorite tipple of the Californian. The Golden State has been sustained in its growth, by myriads of cocktails. It is the State coat of arms.

"Want to see me? Certainly, Colonel." Jaggers is aroused.

In a private room, Jaggers wails over his discharge. His pocket is his only fear. Otherwise, he is in Heaven. His life now, is all "Cocktails and poker!" "Poker and cocktails!" It leaves him little time for business. Woods knows his man—a useful tool.

"Look here, Jaggers; I know your time is valuable." Jaggers bows gravely; he smells a new twenty-dollar piece; it will extend his "cocktail account." "I want you to do some business for me." Jaggers looks stately.

"I'm your man, Colonel," says Jaggers, who is, strange to say, very expert in his line. The trouble with Jaggers is, the saloon is not near enough to Judge Hardin's office. The OFFICE should be in the SALOON. It would save useless walking.

"I want you to search a title for me," says Colonel Joe, from behind a cloud of smoke. Jaggers sniffs the aroma. Joseph hands him several "Excepcionales."

Jaggers becomes dignified and cool. "Is there money in it, Colonel?" he says, with a gleam of his ferret eyes.

"Big money," decisively says Woods.

"I'm very busy now," objects Jaggers. He thinks of his ten-cent ante in that pedro game.

"I want you to give me your idea of the title to the Lagunitas mine. I am thinking of buying in," continues Joe. "I'll give you five hundred dollars, in cold twenties, if you tell me what you know."

"How soon?" Jaggers says, with a gasp.

"Right off!" ejaculates Woods, banging the bell for two more cocktails.

Jaggers drains the fiery compound. He whispers with burning breath in Woods' ears:

"Make it a cool thousand, and swear you'll look out for me. I'll give the thing dead away. You know what a son-of-a-gun Hardin is?"

Woods bows. He DON'T know, but he is going to find out. "I'll give you a job in my mine (the Golden Chariot), as time-keeper. You can keep drunk all your life, except at roll-call. If Hardin hunts you up there, I'll have the foreman pitch him down the shaft. Is this square?"

"Honor bright!" says Jaggers, extending his palm. "Honor bright!" says Joseph, who dares not look too joyous.

Jaggers muses over another cocktail. "You go to the bank, and get a thousand dollars clean stuff. Give me a coupe. I'll give you the things you want, in half an hour. I've got 'em stowed away. Don't follow me!"

Woods nods, and throws him a double-eagle. "I'll be here when you come back. Keep sober till we're done. I'll give you a pass to Virginia City, so you can finish your drunk in high altitudes. It's healthier, my boy!" Joe winks.

Jaggers is off like a shot. Colonel Joseph walks two blocks to the bank. He returns with fifty yellow double-eagles.

"Got to fight coyote style to catch a coyote!" is the murmur of Colonel Woods to his inward monitor. "It's for the fatherless kid."

"Barney," impressively says Joseph, "make me a good cocktail this time! Send 'em in, ANY WAY, when that young man returns. His life is insured. I have to work for a living. Make one for yourself. YOU are responsible."

Barney's chef d'oeuvre wins a smile from the genial son of Missouri. As the last drops trickle down his throat, Jaggers enters. He has had external cocktails. He is flushed, but triumphant.

"Colonel, you're a man of honor. There's your stuff." He throws an envelope on the table.

Joseph Woods opens the packet. "Just count that, young man, while I look at these."

He peruses the papers handed him, with interest. Jaggers follows him.

"This is all you have. Anything else in the office?" says Woods.

"Not a scratch. Colonel, I thought they would come in handy." Jaggers' work is done.

"Take care of your money, my lad. It is yours," says Woods. He rings for Barney, and indites a note to his foreman at the "Golden Chariot." "You better get up there, to-night, Jaggers," he says, handing him the note and a pass. "Your appointment is only good for that train. You give that note to Hank Daly. He'll supply you all the whiskey you want, free. By the way, the boys up there play poker pretty well. Now you keep cool, or you'll get shot as well as lose your money. Don't you forget to stay there, if it's ten years till I want you. Daly will have orders for you.

"If you come back here, Hardin will kill you like a dog, if he finds this out."

"And you?" murmurs Jaggers, who is imbibing the stirrup cup.

"Oh, I'll look out for that!" remarks cheerful Joe Woods. Armed with substantial "persuaders," Jaggers leaves with an agent of Barney's. He has orders to see Jaggers and his "baggage," started for Virginia City.

Jaggers beams. Joe Woods never drops a friend. His future smiles before him. Exit Jaggers.

Woods reads the documents. One is a press copy of a letter dated January, 1864, addressed to Colonel Maxime Valois, from Hardin, asking him to sell him the quartz claims on the Lagunitas grant.

The answer of Valois is written while recovering from his wounds. It reads:

"TALLULAH, GEORGIA, March 1, 1864.

"MY DEAR HARDIN: I have your letter, asking me to sell you the quartz leads on the Lagunitas grant. I am still suffering from my wound, and must be brief.

"I cannot do this. My title is the title of my wife. I have no right to dispose of her property by inheritance, without her consent. She has my child to look after. As the ranch income may fail some day, I will not cut off her chances to sell. It is her property. I would not cloud it. I will join my regiment soon. If the war ends and I live to return, I will arrange with you. I have no power to do this, now, as my wife would have to join in the sale. I will not ask her to diminish the value of the tract. I leave no lien on this property. My wife and child have it free from incumbrance if I die.

"Address me at Atlanta, Georgia.

"YOURS, MAXIME VALOIS."

"I think I hold four aces now, Mr. Philip Hardin," says Woods, contemplating himself in the mirror over the bar as he settles with the gorgeous Barney.

"By the way," remarks Woods, "Barney; if that young man owes you a bill, send it around to my office." Barney escorts his visitor to the door, bowing gratefully. Woods departs in a quandary.

"I guess I'll gather up all my documents, and take a look over things. New York is the place for me to get a square opinion."

When Woods reaches New York he meets Peyton, successful in his tour for evidence. On consultation with Judge Davis, his adviser, Woods sends Peyton to Tallulah. It is likely Valois' papers may be found, for the Colonel "joined" hurriedly on the last advance of Sherman. Colonel Joseph imparts his ideas to his counsel. A certified copy of the transfer recorded by Hardin, of the Lagunitas mine, is sent on by Jaggers, directed in his trip by Hank Daly from the mine.

In five days a despatch from Tallulah gladdens the miner, who longs for Paris:

"Found and examined baggage. Original letter in my hands. Coming with all. Many other papers.

"PEYTON."

On the Virginian's arrival Judge Davis instructs the friends. Woods insists on Peyton taking joint charge of the quest for the orphan's fortune.

"Hardin is responsible under his trusteeship. You can't force Peyton on him as co-executor. He has concealed the will. A suit now would warn the villain and endanger the child's life. Take the certified copy of the transfer to Paris. Get the priest's deposition that the document is forged; then guard the girl as if she were your life. In a few years the heiress will be entitled to claim her estate. Keep the child near Paris, but change her residence often. Watch the maid and Madame de Santos. Follow them to California. Produce the girl you claim to be the heiress. I will give you a letter to an advocate in Paris, who will close up the proof. Beware of Hardin! If he suspects, the child's life may be in danger!"

"I'll kill him myself if there is any foul play!" roars Joe Woods.

"My dear Colonel, that would not bring the child back," remarks Judge Davis, smiling at his handsome counsel fee. "Count on me! Use the cable."

On the Atlantic the guardians agree on their duties. "I will interview Madame de Santos when I close some business in London," says Woods grimly.

Peyton, with credentials to Padre Francisco, speeds from Liverpool to Paris. He arrives none too soon.

Philip Hardin's villany strikes from afar!

Judge Hardin, passing the county seat, on his way to the mine, looks in to obtain his annual tax papers. A voluble official remarks:

"Going to sell your mine, Judge?"

"Certainly not, sir," replies the would-be Senator, with hauteur.

"Excuse me. You sent for certified copies of the title. We thought you were putting it on the market."

Hardin grows paler than his wont. Some one has been on the trail. He asks no questions. His cipher-book is at San Francisco. Who is on the track? He cannot divine. The man applying was a stranger who attracted no attention. The Judge telegraphs to the mine for his foreman to come to San Francisco. He returns to his house on the hill. From his private safe he extracts the last letters of Natalie de Santos.

Since her urgent appeal, she has been brief and cold. She is waiting. Is this her stroke? He will see. Has anyone seen the child and made disclosures? His heart flutters. He must now placate Natalie. The child must be quickly removed from Paris. He dare not give a reason. No, but he can use a bribe.

After several futile attempts he pens this cipher:

Remove child instantly to Dresden. Telegraph your address on arrival. Definite settlement as you wished. Remember your promise. Directions by mail. Imperative.

PHILIP.

Hardin chafes anxiously before a reply reaches him. When he reads it, he rages like a fiend. It clearly reads:

I will not obey. Marry me first. Come here. Keep your oath. I will keep my promise. A settlement on the other child is no safeguard to me. She must have a name. Letters final. Useless to telegraph. HORTENSE.

When Hardin's rage subsides, he reviews the situation in his palace. He is safe for years from an accounting, yet it is coming on. If he brings the heiress to California, it will precipitate it. Secret plans for the Senate of the United States are now maturing. Marriage with Hortense. Impossible. His friends urge his giving his name to an ambitious lady of the "blue blood" of his Southern home. She is a relative of the head of the Democratic capitalists. This is a "sine qua non." The lady has claims on these honors. It has been a secret bargain to give his hand in return for that seat. Hortense talks madness. Never.

As for facing her, he dare not. He has established her. She is too subtle to risk herself out of the lines she has found safe. Who can be the "Deus ex machina"?

Ah, that Italian meddler, Villa Rocca! Hardin weaves a scheme. He will wait her letters. If the Italian is his enemy, he will lure him to California and then——

Ah, yes, till then, patience—the patience of the tiger crouching at the water-pool for his coming prey.

Peyton loses no time in Paris. He reaches the home of Aristide Dauvray. He is welcomed by the circle. The young artists are busy with brush and modelling tool. Woods' patronage has been a blessing. The fame of his orders has been extended by the exhibition of the works ordered by him. His bankers have directed the attention of the travelling Americans to the young man.

Louise Moreau is no longer a bud, but an opening rose. So fair is she, so lovely, that Armand feels his heart beat quicker when the girl nears his canvas to admire his skill. By the direction of Pere Francois, she leaves the house no more for her lessons. There is a secret guard of loving hearts around her.

Pere Francois meets Peyton with open arms. They are to be joint guardians over the innocent child of destiny.

At Peyton's hotel, the men commune. It is not strange that the ex-Confederate is comfortably settled opposite the Dauvray mansion! In an exchange of opinion with the able Josephine, it is agreed that one of the young men or the Colonel shall be always at hand.

Woods meditates a "coup de maitre." He intends, on his arrival, to remove the girl Louise where no malignity of Hardin can reach her, to some place where even Marie Berard will be powerless. He will force some one to show a hand. Then, God keep the villain who leaves his tree to fight in the open! It is war to the death. Woods directs Peyton to use his bankers and the police, telegraphing him at London. He has a fear they have been followed to Europe. The bankers understand that Peyton and the priest are Woods' ambassadors.

Marie Berard comes no more to the home of her charge. Her letters are sent by a commissionaire. Peyton reads in this a danger signal. The soldier is on the watch for treachery. His quiet habits are easily satisfied. He has his books, daily journals, and also French lessons from charming Louise.

It is sunny splendor at the house on the Champs Elysees, where Natalie de Santos moves in her charmed circle of luxury. While Peyton waits for the "Comstock Colonel," an anxious woman sits in her queenly boudoir.

Natalie's beauty is ravishing. The exquisite elegance of her manner is in keeping with the charms of the shining loveliness which makes her a cynosure in the "Bois."

Face to face with a dilemma, the fair "chatelaine" racks her brain for a new expedient. Her woman's wit is nonplussed.

Villa Rocca DEMANDS, URGES, PLEADS, SUES for marriage. Is it love? Of all her swains he is the only one who touches her heart. At his approach, her tell-tale pulse beats high. She dare not yet quit Hardin. There is a campaign before her. To force Hardin to marry her, even secretly, is the main attack. He is now old. Then, to establish her daughter as the heiress of Lagunitas. After Hardin's death, marriage with Villa Rocca. That is the goal. But how to restrain his lover-like ardor.

She smiles at her reflection in the glass. She knows "the fatal gift of beauty." It is another woman than the "queen of the gambling hell" who smiles back at her. The pearls on her neck rise and fall. Hardin! Ah, yes; his possible treachery! Would he dare to take the convent pupil away from her? Perhaps.

A devilish smile plays on her lips. She will let him steal his own child; the other, the REAL Lady of Lagunitas, he never shall know. Gods! If he should be aware of it. It must be prevented. Whom can she trust? No one.

Villa Rocca? Triumph shines in her eyes! She must definitely promise him marriage in these happy years, and give him the child as a gage. He can hide her in his Italian hills. He really has a bit of a castle under the olive-clad hills of Tuscany.

But Marie Berard. She must outwit that maid. When the child is gone, Marie's power ceases. No one will ever believe her. A few thousand francs extra will satisfy the greedy soubrette.

Seizing her pen, she sends a note to the club where baccarat and billiards claim Villa Rocca's idle hours. He meets her in the Bois de Boulogne, now splendid in transplanted foliage. His coupe dismissed, they wander in the alleys so dear to lovers. There is triumph in her face as they separate. A night for preparation; next day, armed with credentials in "billets de banque," Villa Rocca will lure the girl to her mysterious guardian who will be "sick" near Paris. Once under way, Villa Rocca will not stop till the girl is in his Italian manor.

With bounding heart, he assents. He has now Natalie's promise to marry him. They are one in heart.

"I am yours to the death," he says.

While Natalie sips her chocolate next morning, a carriage draws up before Aristide Dauvray's home. Josephine is busied with the household. Louise, singing like a lark, gayly aids her foster-mother. Aristide is far away. He toils at the new structures of beauty. Arm in arm, the young artists are taking a long stroll.

A gentleman of elegant appearance descends, with anxious visage. The peal of the bell indicates haste. Josephine receives her visitor. He curtly explains his visit. The guardian of Louise Moreau needs her instant presence. She is ill, perhaps dying. In her excitement, Josephine's prudence is forgotten. To lose the income from the child, to hazard the child's chances of property. "But the child must go: at once!" Josephine is awed and flurried. As she hastily makes preparation, a ray of suspicion darts through her mind. Who is this messenger?

"I think I had better accompany you," cries Josephine. Then, "her house," to be left to only one feeble old servant.

"Ah, ciel! It is terrible."

"Madame, we have no time to lose. It is near the train time. We will telegraph. You can follow in two hours," the stranger remarks, in silken voice.

The visitor urges. The girl is cloaked and bonneted. Josephine loses her head. "One moment,"—she rushes for her hat and wrap; she will go at once, herself.

As she returns, there is a muffled scream at the door of the coupe.

"Mon Dieu!" Josephine screams. "My child! my Louise!" The coupe door is closing.

A strong voice cries to the driver, "Allez vite!"

As "Jehu" is about to lash his horses, an apparition glues him to his seat.

A gray-haired man points an ugly revolver at his head.

"Halt!" he says. The street is deserted. Villa Rocca opens the door. A strong hand hurls him to the gutter. Louise is urged from the coach. She is in her home again!

Peyton turns to grasp the man, who picks himself from the gutter. He is ten seconds too late. The carriage is off like a flash; it turns the corner at a gallop. Too cool to leave the fort unguarded, Peyton enters the salon. He finds Josephine moaning over Louise, who has fainted.

In a half-hour, Pere Francois and the young men are a bodyguard on duty. Peyton drives to the bank, and telegraphs Woods at London:

"Come instantly! Attempt to abduct, prevented by me! Danger! PEYTON."

The next night, in the rooms of the miner, the padre and Peyton hold a council of war. An engine waits at the "Gare du Nord." When sunlight gilds once more Notre Dame, Peyton enters the car with a lady, clad in black. A maid, selected by Joseph Vimont, is of the party. "Monsieur Joseph" himself strolls into the depot. He jumps into the cab with the engineer. "Allons!" They are off.

From forty miles away a few clicks of the telegraph flash the news to Woods. The priest knows that Peyton and his ward are safely "en route." "Tres bien!"

It is years before the light foot of Louise Moreau presses again the threshold of her childhood's home. In a sunny chateau, near Lausanne, a merry girl grows into a superb "Lady of the Lake." She is "Louise Moreau," but Louise "en reine." She rules the hearts of gentle Henry Peyton and the "autocrat of the Golden Chariot." It is beyond the ken of "Natalie de Santos," or Philip Hardin, to pierce the mystery of that castle by the waters of the Swiss lake.

Visions of peace lend new charms to the love of the pure-souled girl who wanders there.

Louise is not always alone by Leman's blue waters. Colonel Peyton is a thoughtful, aging man, saddened by his fiery past.

He sees nothing. He dreams of the flag which went down in battle and storm. The flag of which Father Ryan sang—"in fond recollection of a dead brother"—the ill-fated stars and bars:

"Furl that banner, for 'tis weary, Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary. Furl it, fold it, it is best; For there's not a man to wave it— And there's not a sword to save it— And there's not one left to lave it In the blood which heroes gave it; And its foes now scorn and brave it; Furl it, hide it; let it rest."

But younger and brighter eyes than his own, dimmed with battle smoke, look love into each other. Louise and Armand feel the throbbing whispers of the lake in their own beating hearts.

Far above them there, the silver peaks lift unsullied altars to the God of nature, life, and love.

And as the rosy flush of morning touches the Jungfrau, as the tender light steals along the sunlit peaks of the Alps, so does the light of love warm these two young hearts. Bounding pulse and melting accent, blush of morning on rosy peak and maiden's cheek, tell of the dawning day of light and love.

Shy and sweet, their natures mingle as two rivulets flowing to the sea. Born in darkness and coldness, to dance along in warmth and sunlight, and mingle with that great river of life which flows toward the unknown sea.

In days of bliss, in weeks of happiness, in months of heart growth, the two children of fortune drink in each other's eyes the philter of love. They are sworn a new Paul and Virginia, to await the uncertain gifts of the gods. The ardor of Armand is reflected in the tender fidelity of graceful Louise, who is a radiant woman now.

While this single car flies out of Paris, a "mauvais quart d'heure" awaits Ernesto de Villa Rocca, at the hands of Natalie.

Bounding from her seat, she cries, "Imbecile fool, you have ruined both of us! The girl is lost now!"

In an hour the Italian evolves a new plan. Marie Berard shall herself find and abduct the child! The Comte de Villa Rocca will escort them to the Italian tower, where Natalie's dangerous ward will be lost forever to Hardin.

But Marie must now be placated! Natalie de Santos smiles as she points to a plump pocket-book.

"A magic sceptre, a magnetic charm, my dear Count." Her very voice trickles with gold.

While Ernesto Villa Rocca and his promised bride dine in the lingering refinement of a Parisian table, they await the return of the baffled Marie. The maid has gone to arrange the departure of Louise. No suspicion must be awakened! Once under way, then silence!—quietly enforced. Ah, chloroform!

There was no etiquette in the sudden return of the pale-faced maid; she dashed up, in a carriage, while the lovers dallied with the dessert.

"Speak, Marie! What has happened?" cries Natalie, with a sinking heart.

"Madame, she is gone! Gone forever!"

Madame de Santos bounds to the side of the defeated woman. "If you are lying, beware!" she hisses. Her hand is raised. There is a dagger flashing in the air. Villa Rocca wrests it from the raging woman's hand. "No folly, Madame! She speaks the truth!"

Marie stubbornly tells of her repulse. Josephine was "not alone!" Blunt Aristide elbowed her out of the house, saying:

"Be off with you! The girl is gone! If you want to know where she is, apply to the police. Now, don't show your lying face here again! I will have you arrested! You are a child stealer! You and your ruffian had better never darken this door. Go!"

Natalie de Santos sinks back in her chair. Her teeth are chattering. A cordial restores her nerves. Count Villa Rocca lingers, moody and silent.

What powerful adversary has baffled them?

"Marie, await me in my room!" commands Natalie. In five minutes the roll of rubber-tired wheels proves that madame and the count have gone out. "To the opera?" "To the theatre?" The sly maid does not follow them. Her brain burns with a mad thirst for vengeance. Her hoard must now be completed. "Has she been tricked?" "Thousand devils, no!"

Softly moving over the driveway, Natalie eagerly pleads with Villa Rocca. Her perfumed hair brushes his cheek. Her eyes gleam like diamonds, as they sweep past the brilliantly lighted temples of pleasure. She is Phryne and Aspasia to-night.

Villa Rocca is drunk with the delirium of passion. His mind reels.

"I will do it," he hoarsely murmurs. Arrived at the "porte cochere," the count lifts his hat, as madame reenters her home.

There is a fatal glitter in Natalie's eyes, as she enters alone her robing room.

When madame is seated in the freedom of a wonderful "robe de chambre," her face is expectant, yet pleasant. Marie has fulfilled every duty of the eyening.

"You may go, Marie. I am tired. I wish to sleep," remarks the lady, nonchalantly.

"Will madame pardon me?"

Marie's voice sounds cold and strange. Ah, it has come, then! Natalie has expected this. What is the plot?

Natalie looks her squarely in the eyes. "Well?" she says, sharply.

"I hope madame will understand that I close my duties here to-night!" the maid slowly says.

"Indeed?" Madame lifts her eyebrows.

"I would be glad to be permitted to leave the house to-morrow."

"Certainly, Marie!" quietly rejoins Natalie. "You may leave when you wish. The butler will settle your account. I shall not ring for you to-morrow." She leans back. Checkmate!

"Will madame excuse me?" firmly says the maid, now defiantly looking her mistress in the eyes. "The butler can probably not settle my little account."

"What is it?" simply asks Madame de Santos.

"It is one hundred thousand francs," firmly replies the woman.

"I shall not pay it! decidedly not!" the lady answers.

"Very good. Judge Hardin might!"

The maid moves slowly to the door.

"Stay!" commands Natalie. "Leave my house before noon to-morrow. You can come here with any friend you wish at this hour to-morrow night. You will have your money. How do you wish it?"

"In notes," the maid replies, with a bow. She walks out of the room. She pauses at the threshold. "Will madame ask Georgette to look over the property of madame?"

"Certainly. Send her to me!"

Marie Berard leaves her world-wearied mistress, forever, and without a word.

When the other maid enters, madame finds need for the assistant. "You may remain in my apartment and occupy the maid's couch. I may want you. I am nervous. Stay!"

The under-maid is joyous at her promotion. Madame de Santos sleeps the sleep of the just. Happy woman!

Marie Berard rages in her room, while her mistress sleeps in a bed once used by a Queen of France.

The ticking clock drives her to madness. She throws it into the court-yard.

Spurned! foiled! baffled!

Ah, God! She will have both fortunes. She remembers that little paper of years ago.

Yes, to find it now. Near her heart. By the candle, she reads the cabalistic words:

"Leroyne & Co., 16 Rue Vivienne."

Was it an imprudence to speak of Hardin? No, it was a mere threat. Marie's cunning eyes twinkle. She will get this money here quietly. Then, to the bank—to the bank! Two fortunes at one "coup."

But she must see Jules! Jules Tessier! He must help now; he must help. And how? He is at the Cafe Ney.

Yet she has often slipped out with him to the "bals de minuit." A friend can replace him; servants keep each others' secrets. Victory!

She must see him at once. Yes, Jules will guide her. He can go to the bank, after she has received her money. And then the double payment and vengeance on madame!

Like lightning, she muffles herself for the voyage. A coupe, ten minutes, and above all—a silent exit. All is safe; the house sleeps. She steals to her lover. Jules Tessier starts, seeing Marie in the ante-room at the Cafe Ney. There are, even here, curious spies.

Marie's eyes are flashing; her bosom heaves. "Come instantly, Jules! it is the hour. My coupe is here."

"Mon Dieu, in an instant!" The sly Jules knows from her shaken voice the golden hoard is in danger.

In a few moments he is by her side in the coupe. "Where to?" huskily asks the head-waiter.

"To the 'bal de minuit.' We can talk there."

"Allons! au Jardin Bullier," he cries.

Before the "fiacre" stops, Jules has an idea of the situation. Ah! a grand "coup." Jules is a genius!

Seated in a bosky arbor, the two talk in lowest tones over their chicken and Burgundy.

There is a noisy party in the next arbor, but a pair of dark Italian eyes peer like basilisks through the leaves of the tawdry shade. The lovers are unconscious of the listener.

With joint toil, the pair of lovers prepare a letter to Leroyne & Co., bankers, 16 Rue Vivienne.

Marie's trembling hand draws the paper from her bosom. She knows that address by heart.

"Give it to me, Marie," he pleads, "for safety." A FRENCHWOMAN can deny her lover nothing.

"Now, listen, 'ma cherie,'" Jules murmurs. "You get the one treasure. To-morrow I go to the bank, the telegraph, you understand, but not till you have the other money safe." Her eyes sparkle. A double fortune! A double revenge! A veritable "coup de Machiavelli."

"And I must go, dearest. I wait for you to-morrow. You get your money; then I am off to the bank, and we will secure the rest. Bravo!"

Jules snaps his fingers at the imbeciles. He sees the "Hotel Tessier" rising in cloudland.

"Press this proud woman hard now. Be careful. I will pay the coupe; we might be followed."

While Jules is absent, Marie dreams the rosy dreams of fruition. Love, avarice, revenge!

Down through the entrance, they saunter singly. Both are Parisians. After a square or two brings them to night's obscurity, parting kisses seal the dark bond; Judge Hardin shall pay after madame; Marie's velvet hand grips Jules' palm in a sinful compact.

Home by the usual way, past Notre Dame, and Jules will discreetly watch her safety till she reaches the omnibus.

She knows not when she reaches Notre Dame that Tessier lies behind her, stunned upon the sidewalk, his pockets rifled, and his senses reeling under brutal blows. Her heart is blithe, for here, under the shade of Notre Dame, she is safe. Twenty steps bring her to the glaring street. Yet the avenger has panther feet.

Out of the shadow, in a moment, she will be. "Oh, God!" the cry smothers in her throat. Like lightning, stab after stab in her back paralyzes her.

Bubbling blood from her quivering lips, Marie falls on her face. A dark shadow glides away, past buttress and vaulted door.

Is it Villa Rocca's ready Italian stiletto?



BOOK V.

REAPING THE WHIRLWIND.

CHAPTER XVIII.

JOE WOODS SURPRISES A LADY.—LOVE'S GOLDEN NETS.



When a cab is halted, the horses shying at a prostrate body, knots of street loungers gather at the cries of the discoverers of Marie Berard's body. The "sergents de ville" raise the woman. Her blood stains the sidewalk, in the shadow of the Church of Christ. Twinkling lights flicker on her face. A priest passing by, walks by the stretcher. He is called by his holy office to pray for the "parting soul."

It is Pere Francois. He has been in Notre Dame. To the nearest hospital the bearers trudge. It is only a few rods. When the body is examined, the pale face is revealed. Pere Francois clasps his hands.

It is, indeed, the mysterious guardian of Louise, stabbed and dying. It is the hand of fate!

Breathing faintly, the poor wretch lies prone. There is no apparent clue to her assailant. She is speechless. It has not been robbery; her valuables are intact. Hastily anointing her, Pere Francois departs. He promises to return in the morning. He hastens to the nearest cabstand, and whirls away to Colonel Woods' hotel. Whose hand has dealt this blow? The financier is startled at the priest's face. Joseph has been jocular since the safe departure of Louise.

He listens. A prodigious whistle announces his feelings. "Padre," says he, "if that Frenchwoman is alive to-morrow, you must see her. Find out all she knows. I'll turn out at daybreak, and watch Madame Santos' house myself. I think that handsome 'she devil' had something to do with this.

"Got done with the maid. No more use for her. Now, my dear friend, I will be here to-morrow when you show up. We will interview the madame. She's the spider in this game."

Woods sleeps like a man in a tossing storm. He knows from the padre's repeated visits at the Santos mansion that dying Marie holds the secret of these two children's lives. If she could only talk.

All night the miner battles for Valois' unknown child.

Up with the lark, Joe sends his "French fellow" for detective Vimont. "Voila! un grand proces."

Vimont sees gold ahead.

By eight o'clock, ferret eyes are watching the Santos mansion, the home of discreet elegance.

A stunning toilet is made by Joseph, in the vain hope of impressing the madame. He will face this Lucrezia Borgia "in his raiment of price." He has a dim idea, that splendid garb will cover his business-like manner of coming to "first principles."

A happy man is he at his well-ordered dejeuner, for though Joe is no De Rohan or Montmorency, yet he eats like a lord and drinks like a prince of the blood. He is the "first of his family"—a golden fact.

He revenges himself daily for the volunteer cuisine of the American River. Often has he laughed over haughty Valois' iron-clad bread, his own flinty beans, the slabs of pork, cooked as a burnt offering by slow combustion. Only one audacious Yankee in the camp ever attempted a pie. That was a day of crucial experiment, a time of bright hopes, a period of sad failure.

Vimont reports at noon. A visit from Villa Rocca of a half-hour. Sauntering up the Elysees, after his departure, the count, shadowed carefully, strolled to his club. He seemed to know nothing. The waxen mask of Italian smoothness fits him like a glove. He hums a pleasant tune as he strolls in. The morning journals? Certainly; an hour's perusal is worthy the attention of the elegant "flaneur." Ah! another murder. He enjoys the details.

Pere Francois enters the colonel's rooms, with grave air. While Vimont frets over his cigar, in the courtyard, the story of Marie Berard is partly told.

She will not live through the night. At her bedside, Sisters of Charity twain, tell the beads and watch the flickering pulse of the poor lost girl. The police have done their perfunctory work. They are only owls frightened by sunlight. Fools! Skilful fools! She knows nothing of her assailant. Her feeble motions indicate ignorance. She must have rest and quiet. The saddened Pere Francois can not disguise from Woods that he suspects much. Much more than the police can dream in their theories.

What is it? Hopes, fears, the rude story of a strange life, and upon it all is the awful seal of the confessional. For, Marie Berard has unfolded partly, her own life-story. Joe Woods clasps the padre's hands.

"You know which of these children is a million-heiress, and which a pauper?"

The padre's eyes are blazing. He is mute. "Let us trust to God. Wait, my friend," says Pere Francois solemnly. Before that manly voice, the miner hushes his passionate eagerness. Violence is vain, here.

It seems to him as if the dead mother of an orphan child had placed her hand upon his brow and said: "Wait and hope!"

Monte Cristo's motto once more.

The padre eyes the Comstock colonel under his thin lashes.

"My friend"—his voice trembles—"I can tell you nothing yet, but I will guide you. I will not see you go wrong."

"Square deal, padre!" roars Joseph, with memories of gigantic poker deals. Irreverent Joe.

"Square deal," says the priest, solemnly, as he lays an honest man's hand in that of its peer. He knows the Californian force of this appeal to honor. Joseph selects several cigars. He fusses with his neckgear strangely.

"Vamos, amigo," he cries, in tones learned from the muleteers of the far West.

Once in the halls of "Madame de Santos," Colonel Joe is the pink of Western elegance. The acute sense of the Missourian lends him a certain dignity, in spite of his gaudy attire.

Under fire, this Western pilgrim can affect a "sang froid" worthy of Fontenoy.

Radiant in white clinging "crepe de Chine," her "prononcee" beauty unaccentuated by the baubles of the jeweller, Madame de Santos greets the visitors.

A blue circle under her eyes tells of a vigil of either love or hate. Speculation is vain. The "monde" has its imperial secrets.

Who can solve the equation of womanhood? Colonel Joseph is effusive in his cheery greeting. "My dear madame, I am glad to be in Paris once more." He would charm this sphinx into life and warmth. Foolish Joseph.

"We all are charmed to see you safely returned," murmurs the madame. The padre is studying the art treasures of the incomparable "Salon de Santos."

"I have some messages from a friend of yours," continues Joseph, strangely intent upon the narrow rim of his hat.

"Ah, yes! Pray who remembers me so many years?"

Joseph fires out the answer like a charge of canister from a Napoleon gun: "Philip Hardin."

The lady's lips close. There is a steely look in her eyes. Her hand seeks her heaving bosom. Is there a dagger there?

"Useless, my lady." There are two men here. The padre is intent upon a war picture of Detaille. His eyes catch a mirror showing the startled woman.

"And—what—did—Mr.—Philip—Hardin say?" the lady gasps.

"He asked me if you remembered Hortense Duval, the Queen of the El—" Natalie reels and staggers, as if shot.

"By God, Lee was right!" cries Woods. He catches her falling form. The first and only time he will ever hold her in his arms.

"Padre, ring the bell!" cries the excited miner.

The clock ticks away noisily in the hall. The wondering servants bear madame to her rooms. All is confusion. A fainting fit.

"Let's get out of here," whispers Woods, frightened by his own bomb-shell.

"Stay till we get a message of formality," murmurs the diplomatic padre. "It would look like violence or insult to leave abruptly. No one here must suspect." Joe nods gloomily and wipes his brows.

The stately butler soon expresses the regrets of madame. "A most unforeseen affair, an assault upon one of her discharged servants, has tried her nerves. Will Colonel Woods kindly excuse madame, who will send him word when she receives again?"

"Colonel Woods will decidedly excuse madame." He returns to his hotel. He grieves over the dark shadows cast upon her suffering loveliness. "By the gods! It's a shame SHE IS WHAT SHE IS," he murmurs to his cigar. Ah, Joseph! entangled in the nets of Delilah.

In a few days the spacious apartments of Colonel Woods have another tenant. Bag and baggage he has quietly departed for the Pacific Slope. Pere Francois runs on to Havre. He waves an adieu from the "quai." It would not be possible to prove that Colonel Joe has not gone to Switzerland. That is not the question, however. But the padre and the colonel are now sworn allies. Joseph is the bearer of a letter to the Archbishop of California. It carries the heart and soul of Pere Francois. The great Church acts now.

"My dear old friend," says Woods in parting, "I propose to keep away from Paris for a couple of years and watch Philip Hardin's handling of this great estate. Peyton will bring the girl on, when her coming of age calls for a legal settlement of the estate. I don't want to strike that woman down until she braves me.

"I'm going to lure Madame de Santos over to California. If she wants to watch me, I will be on deck every time there. I'll bring Peyton and Louise Moreau over to San Francisco. I will never lose sight of that child. Judge Davis shall now run my whole game. I don't ask you who killed that woman, padre, but I will bet the de Santos knows the hand which struck the blow.

"By leaving you, Vimont, to watch her, you may be yet able to catch our man. We'll let her bring forward the heiress of Lagunitas, whom she stowed away in the convent. Don't spare the cash, padre. You can use what you want from my bankers. They will cable me at once, at your wish. Good-bye." Joe Woods is off. His mind is bent on a great scheme.

Pere Francois thinks of the unavenged murder of the poor maid-servant. She is now sleeping the last sleep in Pere la Chaise. Paris has its newer mysteries already, to chase away her memory—only one more unfortunate.

Joe gets news after his arrival at the Golden Gate. "I will tell you, my dear friend, that a large sum of money was due to this woman from Madame de Santos. She was to have it the next day. I can not see who would kill her to prevent her getting money from a prosperous mistress. She was making her a final present on leaving her service. Madame de Santos openly admits she intended to give her a considerable sum of money. She has acted with commendable kindness as to her funeral. All is quiet. The police are baffled." This is the priest's letter.

"I cannot, at present, reveal to you all I learned from the dying penitent. I need a higher permission. I have given you an order to receive the original Valois marriage papers, and the baptismal and birth certificates of Isabel Valois. She is the only child of Maxime and Dolores Valois. Louise Moreau is the real heiress, in my opinion, but we must prove it. I shall come to San Francisco to watch the sequel of the guardianship of the rightful heiress.

"One person ALONE can now positively swear to this child. I shall watch that defiant woman, until she goes to California."

High life in Paris rolls on golden wheels as always. Ernesto Villa Rocca is a daily visitor at the Santos residence. A change has been inaugurated by the death of Marie Berard.

There is a lovely girl there now, whose beauty shines out even by the side of Natalie the peerless. The heiress is at home. Not even to Villa Rocca does Natalie confide herself. The disappearance of Louise Moreau startles her yet. The sudden death of Marie brings her certain advantages in her once dangerous position. She has no fear to boldly withdraw the blooming Isabel Valois, so called, from the "Sacre Coeur," now she has learned that the legal control of the child can only be taken from her by Hardin himself. He will never dare to use open force as regards her. No! fear will restrain him. The dark bond of the past prevents.

But by fraud or artifice, yes! To defeat any possible scheme, she surrounds the young girl with every elegance of instruction and accomplishment. She watches her like a tigress guarding its young, But by her side, in her own home, the young "claimant" will be surely safe. Hardin fears any public denouncement of his schemes. Open scandal is worse than secret crime, in the high circles he adorns.

Count Ernesto Villa Rocca does not plead immediately for madame's hand. Wise Italian. "Chi va piano va sano." Since the fateful evening when he promised to do a certain deed of blood for Natalie, his ardor has chilled a little. "Particeps criminis." He revolves the whole situation. With cool Italian astuteness, he will wait a few months, before linking himself to the rich lady whose confidential maid was so mysteriously murdered. There has been no hesitation, on his part, to accept a large sum of money from Natalie. Besides, his eye rests with burning admiration on the young girlish beauty. Her loveliness has the added charms of untold millions, in her future fortune. A prize. Does he dare? Ernesto Villa Rocca cannot fathom the mysterious connection between the guardian siren and her charge. Would he be safe to depend upon Madame de Santos' fortune? He knows not. Has not the young girl a greater value in his eyes?

Seated in the boudoir of Natalie, with bated breath, Villa Rocca has told Natalie what he expects as a reward for freeing her from Marie.

Natalie hails the expiration of the minority of the "daughter of the Dons." The millions will now fall under her own control. Power!—social power! concrete power!

The most urgent appeals to her from Hardin cannot make her leave France. Hardin storms. He threatens. He implores. He cannot leave California and go to France himself. The wily wretch knows that Natalie THERE will have a local advantage over him. Month after month glides away. Swordplay only. Villa Rocca, dallying with Natalie, gloats over the beauties of the ward.

Armand Valois, by invitation of Colonel Peyton, has decided to spend a year or so in Switzerland and Germany, painting and sketching. Louise Moreau soons becomes a proficient amateur artist. She wanders on the lovely shores of the lake, with the gifted young American. Love weaves its golden web. Joined heart and soul, these children of fortune whisper their love by the throbbing bosom of the lake.

It is with the rare genius of her sly nature, a happy thought, that Madame de Santos requests the chivalric Raoul Dauvray to instruct her own ward in modelling and sketching. It will keep her mind busy, and content the spirited girl. She must save her from Villa Rocca. Dauvray is also a painter of no mean talent. A studio is soon arranged. The merry girl, happy at her release from convent walls, spends pleasant hours with the ex-Zouave. Drifting, drifting daily down happy hours to the knowledge of their own ardent feelings.

Natalie absolutely debars all other visitors from meeting her young ward. Only her physician and Pere Francois can watch these studio labors. She fears Hardin's emissaries only.

Many visits to the studio are made by Villa Rocca. He is a lover of the "beaux-arts."

The days fly by pleasantly. Natalie is playing a cool game now. Pere Francois and Raoul Dauvray are ever in her charmed circle. She dare not refuse the friendship of the inscrutable priest. She watches, cat-like, for some sign or token of the absent Louise Moreau. Nothing. Colonel Joseph's sagacity has arranged all communication from the Swiss lakes, through his trusted banker. It is a blind trail.

Vimont, eying Natalie and Villa Rocca keenly, reports that he cannot fathom their relations. Guilty lovers? No. There is no obstacle at all to their marriage. Then why not a consummation? "Accomplices?" "In what crime?" "Surely none!" The count is of station undoubted. A member of the Jockey Club. Natalie de Santos speaks frankly to Pere Francois of her obligations to the dead woman. That mysterious assailant still defies the famed police of Paris.

Yet around Madame de Santos a web of intrigue is woven, which even her own keen eyes do not ferret out.

Strange woman-heart. Lonely and defiant, yet blind, she thinks she guards her control of the budding heiress, "Isabel Valois." Waiting?

In the studio, handsome Raoul Dauvray bends glowing eyes on the clay which models the classic beauty of Isabel Valois. The sabre scar on his bronzed face burns red as he directs the changes of his lovely model. Neither a Phryne nor an Aphrodite, but "the Unawakened Venus."

A dreamy light flickers in her eyes, as she meets the burning gaze of an artist lover.

Fighting hard against the current, the heiress of millions affects not to understand.

It is "Monsieur Raoul," "Mademoiselle Isabel;" and all the while, their hearts beat in unison.

Raoul, soldier-artist, Frenchman, and lover, dissembles when Villa Rocca is present. There is a strange constraint in the girl's dark eyes, as her idle hands cross themselves, in unconscious pose, when they are alone.

"Lift your eyes a little, mademoiselle. Look steadily at me," is his gentle request. He can hear the clock tick as if its beat was the fail of a trip hammer.

When even his fastidious task can no longer delay, he says, as the afternoon sun gilds the dome of the Invalides, throwing down his graver, "Je n'en puis plus, mademoiselle. It is finished. I will release you now."

As Raoul throws the cloth over the clay model, Isabel passes him with a gasp, and gazes with set face from the window.

His bursting heart holds him back. There is no longer an excuse.

"And I shall see you no more, Monsieur Raoul?" the heiress of millions softly says.

"Not till this is in marble, mademoiselle. A poor artist does not mingle in your own gay world."

"But a soldier of France is welcome everywhere," the girl falters.

A mist rises to Raoul's eyes. He bears the cross of the Legion of Honor on his breast. The perfume from her hair is blown across his face. "Les violettes de Parme." The artist sinks in the soldier.

Springing to the window, the girl's assenting hand, cold as ice, is clasped in his palm.

"Isabel!" he cries. She trembles like a leaf. "May the soldier ask what the artist would not dare?" He is blind with passion.

The lovely dark-eyed girl turns a splendid face upon him, her eyes filled with happy tears, and cries:

"Captain, you saved my life!"

The noisy clock ticks away; the only sound beside its clang is the beating hearts which close in love's first embrace, when the soldier knows he has won the heart of the Pearl of Paris.

"Your rank, your millions, your guardian! The Count Villa Rocca, my enemy!" he hoarsely whispers.

The clinging beauty hands him the ribbon from her throat.

"Claim me with this!" she cries as his arms enfold her.

The dream of young love; first love; true love.

Every obstacle fades away: Lagunitas' millions; proud guardian; scheming duenna; watchful Villa Rocca. The world is naught to the two whose arms bind the universe in love's golden circle,

Raoul murmurs to the glowing maiden in his arms:

"And can you trust me?"

The splendid beauty clasps him closer, whispering softly:

"A Spanish girl loves once and to the death."

"But, darling," she falters, as her arms cling closer, "we must wait and hope!"

A letter from Philip Hardin arrives, in the gayest midwinter of a rejuvenated Paris. The time for decisive action has arrived. Natalie revolves every clause of Hardin's proposition in her mind.

In less than a year the now blooming Isabel will be eighteen years of age. The accounting—

Hardin is trying now to cut the legal Gordian knot. His letter reads as follows:

I have determined to make you a proposition which should close all our affairs. It should leave no cause for complaint. I need Isabel Valois here, You will not trust yourself in America with our past relations unsettled. I shall not force you, but I must do my duty as guardian.

You are worthy of a settlement. No one knows you here now. Marry Villa Rocca. Come here with Isabel. I will give you jointly a fortune which will content you. I will settle upon your child the sum of one hundred thousand dollars, to be paid over to her use when of age. If you marry Villa Rocca now, I will give him the drafts for the child's money. If you decide to marry him, you may ask him to visit me here, as your agent. I will show him where your own property is located, to the extent of half a million dollars. This is to be turned over to you and him jointly, when you are man and wife. This will satisfy his honor and his rank. Otherwise, I shall soon cease my remittances. You may not be willing to do as I wish, but the heiress must be returned to me, or you and your child will remain without means.

Your marriage will be my safeguard and your own establishment. Tell Villa Rocca any story of your life; I will confirm and prove it. I shall name my bankers as trustee to join with any person you name for your child. The principal to be paid over to her on her marriage, to her own order. She can take any name you choose, except mine. If this is satisfactory, cable to me, "Accepted; agent coming." Send a letter by your agent, with a private duplicate to me, with your wishes. HARDIN.

Natalie stands face to face with a life's decision. Can she trust Villa Rocca? By the dark bond of crime between them she must. A poor bond of crime. And the millions of Lagunitas. To yield them up. A terrible temptation.

In her boudoir, Villa Rocca sums up with lightning flashes, the merits of this proposition. It is partly unfolded to him by the woman, who holds his pledge to marry her. "She must settle her affairs." It is a good excuse. He smiles, as he says:

"Madonna mia, in whose name will this property be placed, if I make you Countess Villa Rocca?"

"In our joint names, with benefit to the survivor," she replies.

"If arranged in even sums on each of us, with a reversion to me, if you die childless, I will accept. I will go to California, and bring the deposit for the missing child. I can make every arrangement for your lawyer. We can go over together and marry there, when you restore the heiress next year to her guardian." A bargain, a compact, and a bond of safety. It suits both.

The lady despatches to Hardin her acceptance of his proposal. In preparing a letter to the Judge she gives her "fiance" every instruction. She permits him to mail the duplicate, carefully compared.

In a week, Count Ernesto is tossing on the billows of the Atlantic. He is a fashionable Columbus. He is sufficiently warned to be on his guard in conversation with the wily Hardin. Natalie is far-seeing.

Villa Rocca laughed as he embraced his future bride. "Trust an Italian, in finesse, cara mia."

It is arranged between the two that Hardin is to have no hint of the character, appearance, or whereabouts of the child who receives the bounty. The letter bears the name of "Irene Duval" as the beneficiary of the fund. A system of correspondence is devised between them. Villa Rocca, using his Italian consul at San Francisco as a depositary, will be sure to obtain his letters. He will write to a discreet friend in Paris. Perhaps a spy on herself, Natalie muses.

Still she must walk hand in hand with Villa Rocca, a new sharer of her secret. But HE dare not talk.

When these two have said their last adieux, when Natalie sums up her lonely thoughts, she feels, with a shudder for the future, that not a shade of tenderness clings around this coming marriage. Mutual passion has dissipated itself. There is a self-consciousness of meeting eyes which tells of that dark work under the gloomy buttresses of Notre Dame. Murder—a heavy burden!

Can they trust each other? They MUST. The weary secret of unpunished crime grows heavier, day by day. In losing a tyrant, in the maid, will she not gain a colder master in the man she marries? Who knows?

Natalie Santos realizes that she has no legal proof whose hand struck that fatal blow. But Villa Rocca can expose her to Hardin. A fatal weakness. The anxious woman realizes what her false position and idle luxury cost in heartache. It is life!

The roses turn to ashes on her cheeks as she paces her lonely rooms. Restless and weary in the Bois, she is even more dull and "distraite" in society. The repression of her secret, the daily presence of the daughter she dares not own, all weary her heart and soul. She feels that her power over Hardin will be gone forever when the heiress enters upon her rights. Has the child learned to love another? Her life is barren, a burning waste.

Money, with its myriad luxuries, must be gained by the marriage with Villa Rocca. To see her child inherit an honored name, and in possession of millions, will be revenge enough upon Philip Hardin. He never shall know the truth while he lives. Once recognized, Isabel Valois cannot be defeated in her fortune. Marie is dead. The only one who might wish to prove the change of the two children, Hardin himself, knows not. He must take her word. She is invincible.

Pere Francois becomes a greater comfort to her daily. The graceful priest brings with him an air of peace into the gaudy palace on the Elysees. She softens daily.

Raoul Dauvray has finished the artistic labors of his commissions. He is now only an occasional visitor. If he has the love of the heiress he dares not claim her yet. The fiery Zouave chafes in vain. Natalie holds him off. Pere Francois whispers, "Wait and hope!"

With the blindness of preoccupation, Natalie sees not how the tendrils of "first love" have filled the girl's heart. The young soldier-artist rules that gentle bosom. Love finds its ways of commune. Marriage seems impossible for years. Isabel must mount her "golden throne" before suitors can come to woo. A sculptor! The idea is absurd.

Not a single trace is left of "Louise Moreau." Natalie's lip curls as she fathoms the motive of the girl's disappearance. Friends of Marie Berard's have probably secreted her, as a part of the old scheme of blackmail upon her. Did the secret die with her? It is fight now. She muses: "Now they may keep her. The seal of the grave is on the only lips which could tell the story of Lagunitas." Villa Rocca even, does not know who the child was! His evidence would be valueless.

If—yes, if the Dauvray household should seek to fathom the history of the waif, how like an everyday history is the story in reply:

"Marie Berard wished to disembarrass herself of her fatherless child. She yet wished to hold some claim on the future in its behalf. That explains Louise Moreau's motives." There is a high wall of defence around her whole position. Her own child dead; but where, or how? She must invent. Walls have been scaled, my Lady of the Castle Dangerous. The enemy is mining under your defences, in silence.

With Villa Rocca's nerve and Italian finesse, even Hardin can be managed. If HE should die, then the dark secret of her child's transformation is safe forever!

Days fly by. Time waits for no aching hearts. There is a smile of satisfaction on the lovely face of Natalie. She peruses the letters from Hardin and the count. They announce the arrangement of the dower for the absent "Irene Duval." Villa Rocca is in San Francisco. The count forwards one set of the drafts, without comments. He only says he will bring the seconds, and thirds of exchange himself, He is going to come "home."

He announces his departure to the interior with Judge Hardin. He wishes to see the properties and interests held for Madame de Santos by her lawyer.

In a month he will be on his homeward way; Judge Hardin has loyally played his part. Villa Rocca's letters prove his respect for a bride who brings him a half million. The letters warm visibly. Even an Italian count can be impressed by solid wealth. Natalie de Santos's lips curl in derision of man. Her clouded history is now safe. Yes, the golden glitter of her ill-gotten fortune will cover all inquiry as to the late "Senor de Santos," of shadowy memory. She IS safe!

It is only a fair exchange of courtesy. She has not investigated the family stories of the noble Villa Rocca.

Cool, suave, polished; accepted at the clubs as a man of the world; an adept with rapier and pistol; Ernesto Villa Rocca bears his social coronet as bravely as the premier duke of France—always on guard!

"Does she love this man?" Natalie looks in her glass. From girlhood she has been hunted for her beauty. Now a fortune, title, and the oblivion of years will aid her in reigning as a mature queen. A "mondaine" with no entanglements. Paradise opens.

Liberal in works of charity, the adventuress can glide easily into religion. Once her feet firmly planted, she will "assume that virtue, if she have it not."

"And then—and after all!" The last tableau before the curtain falls. The pall of sable velvet. Natalie shudders. She remakes her toilet and drives to the opera.

"After all, social life is but a play." Her heart beats high with pride. Villa Rocca's return with the funds will be only a prelude to their union. But how to insure the half million? "How?"

The count's greed and entire union in interest with her will surely hold him faithful,

She will marry Ernesto as soon as he returns. She can trust him with the heiress until the property is settled on the married lovers.

Hardin, when Jules Tessier's addled brains are restored by careful nursing, receives a document from Leroyne & Co., which rouses his inmost soul.

Jules Tessier, handsome brute, chafes under the loss of the double blackmail. "Two hundred thousand francs," and his Marie.

To add to his anguish, he knows not where or under what name, Marie has deposited her own golden hoard. The "Hotel Tessier" has gone to Cloudland with the other "chateaux en Espagne"—the two payments are lost! Jules rages at knowing that even the savings of murdered Marie are lost to him. Even if found, they cannot be his by law. The ruffians who robbed him of everything, have left no trace.

The two weeks passed tossing on a hospital bed, have been lost to the police. Dimly Jules remembers the sudden assault. Crashing blows raining down upon him! Not a scrap of paper is left. The fatal letter to Leroyne & Co. is gone.

The police question the artful Jules.

He holds the secret of Leroyne & Co. to himself.

He may yet get a handsome bribe to tell even the meagre facts he knows. Marie Berard's case is one of the reigning sensations. Her lips are now sealed in death.

The baffled police only see in the visit to the "bal de minuit," a bourgeois intrigue of ordinary character.

Jules dares not tell all. He fears the stern French law. Tossing on his bed of pain, his only course is to secretly visit Leroyne & Co.

The bereaved lover feels that the parties who followed him, were directed by some malign agency which is fraught with future danger for him.

The poniard of darkness may reach his heart, if he betrays his designs.

Strongly suspecting Natalie de Santos, yet he knows her revenge struck through meaner hands than her own.

He has no proof. Not a clue. Villa Rocca is to him unknown. He fears to talk.

He hobbles forth to his vocation, and dares not even visit Marie's grave.

Spies may track him as on that fatal night. And even Leroyne's bank may be watched.

He must take this risk, for his only reward lies in that mysterious address.

Jules, in workman's blouse, spends an hour with the grave-faced banker of the Rue Vivienne.

When he emerges, he has ten one-thousand-franc notes in his waist-lining and the promise of more.

The banker knows the whole story of Jules' broken hopes; of the promised reward; the double crime.

He directs Jules Tessier to further await orders at the cafe, and to ignore the whole affair.

A significant hint about going forth at night makes Jules shudder. And the cipher cablegram gives Hardin the disjointed facts of Marie's death! His one ally gone. Her lips sealed forever.

Musing in his library, Hardin's clear head unravels this intrigue. The Paris police know not the past history of the actors in this drama. Jules is simply greedy and thick-headed. Leroyne & Co. are passionless bankers.

But Hardin gathers up the knotted threads and unravels all.

Accustomed to weigh evidence, to sift facts, his clear mind indicates Natalie de Santos as the brain, Villa Rocca as the striking assassin of this plot.

It is all aimed at him.

"Ah, yes!" the chafing lawyer muses, as he walks the legal quarter-deck of his superb library. "Villa Rocca and Natalie are lovers. The girl tried to blackmail them. She was trapped and put out of the way.

"Marie Berard dead—one dangerous ally gone. Villa Rocca and Natalie are the only two who know all. Her mind is his now.

"Ah, I have it!" with a devilish sneer. "I will separate these two billing and cooing lovers. If I get Villa Rocca here, he will never get back to France.

"When he is out of the way, Natalie can prove nothing.

"If she comes here I will treat her story as that of an insane woman."

Hardin draws a glass with shaking hand.

"Yes; a private asylum."

As for the heiress, there are plans in his mind he dare not whisper.

Illegitimacy and other reasons may bar her rights. The heiress knows nothing and she has not a paper.

Some outsider must fight this case.

In Hardin's dreams he sees his enemies at his feet. On Ernesto Villa Rocca's handsome face is the pallor of death. Lagunitas and its millions are his by right of power and cunning.

Marie Berard's avenger is thousands of miles away from her grave, and his cunning plan already woven to ensnare the Italian when off his guard. Yet Hardin's blood boils to feel that "the secret for a price" is buried in Marie Berard's grave. Toss as he may, his dreams do not discover the lost secret. Even Philip Hardin may meet a Nemesis.

Villa Rocca, slain by a well-contrived accident, died for a secret he knew not.

His own hand slew the woman who knew alone of the changelings, save the bright and defiant ex-queen of the El Dorado.