Meantime he also had his anxiety and his correspondence.  He feared lest Garcia should learn how things had been managed, and should hasten to San Francisco to act henceforward as his own special providence.  In that case there would be awkward explanations, there would be complicated and perilous plottings, there might be stabbings or poisonings.  Already, as soon as he reached the Mohave valley, he had written one cajoling letter to his uncle.  Scattered through six pages on various affairs were underscored phrases and words, which, taken in sequence, read as follows: 

“Things have gone well and ill.  What was most desirable has not been fully accomplished.  There have been perils and deaths, but not the one required.  The wisest plans have been foiled by unforeseen circumstances.  The future rests upon slow poison.  A few weeks more will suffice.  Do not come here.  It would rouse suspicion.  Trust all to me.”

He now sent other letters, reporting the progress of the malady caused by the poison, urging Garcia to remain at a distance, assuring him that all would be well, etc.

“There will be no will,” declared one of these lying messengers.  “If there is a will, you will be the inheritor.  In all events, you will be safe.  Rely upon my judgment and fidelity.”

It is curious, by the way, that such men as Coronado and Garcia, knowing themselves and each other to be liars, should nevertheless expect to be believed, and should frequently believe each other.  One is inclined to admit the seeming paradox that rogues are more easily imposed upon than honest men.

No responses came from Garcia.  But, by way of consolation, Coronado had Clara’s correspondence to read.  One day this hidalgo, securely locked in his room, held in his delicate dark fingers a letter addressed to Miss Clara Van Diemen, and postmarked in writing “Fort Yuma.”  Hot as the day was, there was a brazier by his side, and a kettle of water bubbling on the coals.  He held the letter in the steam, softened the wafer to a pulp, opened the envelope carefully, threw himself on a sofa, scowled at the beating of his heart, and began to read.

Before he had glanced through the first line he uttered an exclamation, turned hastily to the signature, and then burst into a stream of whispered curses.  After he had blasphemed himself into a certain degree of calmness, he read the letter twice through carefully, and learned it by heart.  Then he thrust it deep into the coals of the brazier, watched it steadily until its slight flame had flickered away, lighted a cigarito, and meditated.

This epistle was not the only one that troubled him.  He already knew that Clara was inquiring about this man of whom she never spoke, and conducting her inquiries with an intelligence and energy which showed that her heart was in the business.  If things went on so, there might be trouble some day, and there might be punishment.  For a time he was so disturbed that he felt somewhat as if he had a conscience, and might yet know what it is to be haunted by remorse.