As for Clara, he was furious with her, notwithstanding his love for her, and indeed because of it.  It was outrageous that a woman whom he adored should seek to ferret out facts which might send him to State’s Prison.  It was abominable that she would not cease to care for that stupid officer after he had been so carefully put out of her way.  Coronado felt that he was persecuted.

Well, what should be done?  He must put a stop to Clara’s inquiries, and he would do it by inquiring himself.  Yes, he would write to people about Thurstane, show the letters to the girl (but never send them), and so gradually get this sort of correspondence into his own hands, when he would drop it.  She would be led thereby to trust him the more, to be grateful to him, perhaps to love him.  It was a hateful mode of carrying on a courtship, but it seemed to be the best that he had in his power.  Having so decided, this master hypocrite, “full of all subtlety and wiles of the devil,” turned his attention to his siesta.

For twenty minutes he slept the sleep of the just; then he was awakened by a timid knock at his door.  Guessing from the shyness of the demand for entrance that it came from a servant, he called pettishly, “What do you want?  Go away.”

“I must see you,” answered a voice which, feeble and indistinct as it was, took Coronado to the door in an instant, trembling in every nerve with rage and alarm.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

Opening the door softly and with tremulous fingers, Coronado looked out upon an old gray-headed man, short and paunchy in build, with small, tottering, uneasy legs, skin mottled like that of a toad, cheeks drooping and shaking, chin retiring, nose bulbous, one eye a black hollow, the other filmy and yet shining, expression both dull and cunning, both eager and cowardly.

The uncle seemed to be even more agitated at the sight of the nephew than the nephew at the sight of the uncle.  For an instant each stared at the other with a strange expression of anxiety and mistrust.  Then Coronado spoke.  The words which he had in his heart were, What are you here for, you scoundrelly old marplot?  The words which he actually uttered were, “My dear uncle, my benefactor, my more than parent!  How delighted I am to see you!  Welcome, welcome!”

The two men grasped each other’s arms, and stuck their heads over each other’s shoulders in a pretence of embracing.  Perhaps there never was anything of the kind more curious than the contrast between their affectionate attitude and the suspicion and aversion painted on their faces.

“Have you been seen?” asked Coronado as soon as he had closed and locked the door.  “I must contrive to get you away unperceived.  Why have you come?  My dear uncle, it was the height of imprudence.  It will expose you to suspicion.  Did you not get my letters?”

“Only one,” answered Garcia, looking both frightened and obstinate, as if he were afraid to stay and yet determined not to go.  “One from the Mohave valley.”