In the first place a gentleman in the hotel at Paso Robles—­one who came often to the Mission of San Miguel, and was a most important person—­had sent a message asking that the church might be opened for him in the afternoon.  He wished to drive out, and bring a lady to see the Mission.  The Padre, obliged to spend the afternoon at the bedside of a man dying at a distant farmhouse, stuck the key in the church door, with a note attached, asking the lady and gentleman to lock the door when ready to go away, and hide the key under a big stone which the letter indicated.  The vestments and altar cloths, the great treasures of the church, had been purposely left in an open box, that they might be inspected by the visitors, and the Padre had departed with a growing uneasiness in his mind, lest the instructions should be neglected.  So strong was his presentiment, “though the gentleman was not one to forget,” that he felt compelled to leave the sick man before nightfall, and hurry off to the church to see if his fears were justified.  He promised, however, to return to the bedside immediately; and luckily meeting the gentleman, heard a confession that indeed the key had been forgotten.  Only a short time had passed since the church was left empty, therefore the Padre had no further fear for the safety of the vestments.  He hurried on, missed seeing the motor, found the key in the church door as he expected, gave it a quick turn in the lock, took it out, put it in the pocket of his long gown, and started back to the farm as fast as his legs would carry him.

“Well, wouldn’t he give you the key?” Nick asked, when the story had reached this point.

“Yes.  He gave it to me.  But it was pretty dark by that time, and a good long way from the Mission.  I lost myself, and thought I was never going to get here,” Billy admitted.  “I guess I must have wandered all round Robin Hood’s Barn, when, just as I was ready to give up boat, the stars come out through a lot of clouds, and showed me the roof of the church.  I steered by that, and here I am.”

“I think we must be grateful, and not scold him,” said Angela.

“I did my best, anyhow,” Billy persisted, “and I brought this lantern out of the auto.  The worst is, I don’t know how her lights’ll work, for thinkin’ to be at the hotel before dark, I didn’t bring no water.”

Nick stifled a word or two he would have liked to say, reflecting that perhaps he was as much as to blame as Billy.  He ought to have left nothing to chance where Angela’s comfort and safety were concerned.

They got water, though finding it meant further delay, and after all, the acetylene lamps obstinately refused to shine.  It was the first time they had been used since Nick bought the car, and he abused himself roundly for not having tested their temper.  Something was wrong, something which neither his knowledge nor Billy’s could set right; and after tinkering for half an hour, they started with no other light than that of the lantern which Billy proposed to hold while Hilliard drove.