Taking quick advantage of the closed eye, Coronado turned to a dressing-table, pulled out a drawer, seized a key, and opened Garcia’s trunk.  Before the old man could interfere, the younger one held in his hand a paper containing two ounces or so of white powder.

“Did you give her this?” demanded Coronado.

Garcia stared at the paper with such a scared and guilty face, that it was equivalent to a confession.

Coronado turned away to hide his face.  There was a strange smile upon it; at first it was a joy which made him half angelic; then it became amusement.  He tottered to a chair, threw himself into it with the air of a thoroughly wearied man who finds rest delicious, put a grain of the powder on his tongue, and then drew a long sigh, a sigh of entire relief.

We must explain.  The inner history of this scene is not a tragedy, but a farce.  For two weeks or more Coronado had been watching his uncle day and night, and at last had found in his trunk a paper of powder which he suspected to be arsenic.  A blunderer would have destroyed or hidden it, thereby warning Garcia that he was being looked after, and causing him to be more careful about his hiding places.  Coronado emptied the paper, snapped off every grain of the powder with his finger, wiped it clean with his handkerchief, and refilled it with another powder.  The selection of this second powder was another piece of cleverness.  He had at hand both flour and finely pulverized sugar; but he wanted to learn whether Garcia would really dose the girl, and he wanted a chance to frighten him; so he chose a substance which would be harmless, and yet would cause illness.

“You will be hung,” said Coronado, staring sternly at his uncle.

“I don’t know what you mean,” mumbled the old man, trembling all over.

“What a fool you were to use a poison so easily detected as arsenic!  I have sent for doctors.  They will recognize her symptoms.  You prepared the chocolate.  Here is the arsenic in your trunk.  You will be hung.”

“Give me that paper,” whimpered Garcia, rising from his bed and staggering toward Coronado.  “Give it to me.  It is mine.”

Coronado put the package behind him with one hand and held off his uncle with the other.

“You must go,” he persisted.  “She won’t live two hours.  Be off before you are arrested.  Take horse for San Francisco.  If there is a steamer, get aboard of it.  Never mind where it sails to.”

“Give me the paper,” implored Garcia, going down on his knees.  “O Madre de Dios!  My head, my head!  Oh, what extremities!  Give me the paper.  Carlos, it was all for your sake.”

“Are you going?” demanded Coronado.

“Oh yes.  Madre de Dios!  I am going.”

“Come along.  By the back way.  Do you want to pass her room?  Do you want to see your work?  I will send your trunk to the bankers.  Quit California at the first chance.  Quit it at once, if you go to China.”