Now Dick had made his plans.  In a new country, where five years bring amazing changes, it is easy to play pranks, even in churchyards.  In the San Lorenzo cemetery were many nameless graves, and the sexton chanced to be an illiterate foreigner who could neither read nor write.  So Dick identified a forlorn mound as his last resting-place, and told the sexton that a marble cross would be erected there under his (Dick’s) direction.  Then he tipped the man, and bought a monument, taking care to choose one sufficiently time-stained.  There are scores of such in every marble-worker’s yard.  Upon it were cut Dick’s initials, a date, and an appropriate text.  Within three days of the receipt of Mr. Carteret’s letter, the cross was standing in the cemetery.  None knew or cared whence it came.  Moreover, Dick had passed unrecognised through the town where he had once ruffled it so gaily as Lord Carteret.  He had changed greatly, as he said, and for obvious reasons he had never visited the mission town since his bogus death and burial.

Thus it came to pass that Dick and his father travelled together to San Lorenzo, and together stood beside the cross in the cemetery.  Presently Dick walked away; and then the old man knelt down, bareheaded, and prayed fervently for many minutes.  Later, the father pointed a trembling finger at the initials.  “Why,” he demanded querulously, “did they not give the lad his full name?” And to this natural question Dick had nothing to say.

“It seems,” murmured the old man mournfully, “that Mr. Crisp, with all his kindness, felt that the name should perish also.  Well, amen, amen.  Will you give me your arm, sir?”

So, arm in arm, they passed from the pretty garden of sleep.  Dick was really moved, and the impulse stirred within him to make full confession there and then.  But he strangled it, and his jaw grew set and hard.  As yet he was in ignorance of the change in his father’s fortunes.  Mr. Carteret assumed none of the outward signs of prosperity.  He wore the clothes of a poor parson, and his talk flowed along the old channels, a limpid stream not without sparkle, but babbling of no Pactolian sands.  And then, quite suddenly and simply, he said that he had fallen heir to a large estate, and that he wished to set aside so much money as a memorial of his son, to be expended as the experience of the bishop of the diocese might direct.

“You—­you are a rich man?” faltered Dick.

“My son, sir, had he lived, would have been heir to five thousand a year.”

Dick gasped, and a lump in his throat stifled speech for a season.  Presently he asked politely the nature of Mr. Carteret’s immediate plans, and learned that he was leaving San Lorenzo for Santa Barbara on the morrow.  Dick had determined not to let his father stray from his sight till he had seen him safe out of the country, but he told himself that he must confer with the ‘Bishop’ at once.  The ‘Bishop’ must act as go-between; the