“That sounds interesting,” he replied, dryly.  “What am I going to pay for it?”

“Half a million dollars.”

“Nonsense.”

“Perhaps.  But you’ll have to admit that his reasoning is not so preposterous as you think.”  And she went on to explain to Parker every angle of the situation as Don Mike viewed it.

Both Parker and his wife listened attentively.  “Well, John,” the good soul demanded, when her daughter had finished speaking:  “What’s wrong with that prescription?”

“By George, that young man has a head on his shoulders.  His reasoning is absolutely flawless.  However, I am not going to pay him any half-million dollars.  I might, in a pinch, consider paying him half that, but—­”

“Would a quit-claim deed be worth half a million to you, Dad?”

“As a matter of cold business, it would.  Are you quite certain he was serious?”

“Oh, quite serious.”

“He’s a disappointment, Kay.  I had hoped he would prove to be a worth-while opponent, for certainly he is a most likable young man.  However—­” He smothered a yawn with his hand, selected a cigar from his case, carefully cut off the end and lighted it.  “Poor devil,” he murmured, presently, and rose, remarking that he might as well take a turn or two around the farmyard as a first aid to digestion.

Once outside, he walked to the edge of the mesa and gazed down the moon-lit San Gregorio.  Half a mile away he saw a moving black spot on the white ribbon of road.  “Confound you,” he murmured, “you’re going to get some of my tail feathers, but not quite the handful you anticipate.  You cannot stand the acid test, Don Mike, and I’m glad to know that.”

CHAPTER XXIII

As Farrel approached the Mission de la Madre Dolorosa, a man in the rusty brown habit of a Franciscan friar rose from a bench just outside the entrance to the Mission garden.

“My son,” he said, in calm, paternal accents and speaking in Spanish, “I knew you would come to see your old friends when you had laid aside the burdens of the day.  I have waited here to be first to greet you; for you I am guilty of the sin of selfishness.”

“Padre Dominic!” Don Mike grasped the out-stretched hand and wrung it heartily.  “Old friend!  Old Saint!  Not since my confirmation have I asked for your blessing,” and with the words he bent his head while the old friar, making the sign of the cross, asked the blessing of God upon the last of the Farrels.

Don Mike drew his old friend down to the seat the latter had just vacated.  “We will talk here for awhile, Father,” he suggested.  “I expect the arrival of a friend in an automobile and I would not be in the garden when he passes.  Later I will visit with the others.  Good Father Dominic, does God still bless you with excellent health?”

“He does, Miguel, but the devil afflicts me with rheumatism.”