The girl paled slightly and a look of apprehension crept into her eyes.  “And—­and—­he’s—­ceasing operations?” she almost quavered.

“He is not.  He defied me, confound him, and in the end I had to let him have his way.”

El Mono, the butler, interrupted them by appearing on the porch to announce that William waited in the car without.  Mrs. Parker presently appeared, followed by her husband, and the four entered the waiting car.  Don Mike, satisfied that his old riding breeches and coat were clean and presentable, had not bothered to change his clothes, an evidence of the democracy of his ranchero caste, which was not lost upon his guests.

“I know another route to El Toro,” he confided to the Parkers as the car sped down the valley.  “It’s about twelve miles out of our way, but it is an inspiring drive.  The road runs along the side of the high hills, with a parallel range of mountains to the east and the low foothills and flat farming lands sloping gradually west to the Pacific Ocean.  At one point we can look down into La Questa Valley and it’s beautiful.”

“Let us try that route, by all means,” John Parker suggested.  “I have been curious to see La Questa Valley and observe the agricultural methods of the Japanese farmers there.”

“I am desirous of seeing it again for the same reason, sir,” Farrel replied.  “Five years ago there wasn’t a Jap in that valley and now I understand it is a little Japan.”

“I understand,” Kay struck in demurely, “that La Questa Valley suffered a slight loss in population a few weeks ago.”

Both Farrel and her father favored her with brief, sharp, suspicious glances.  “Who was telling you?” the latter demanded.

“Senor Bill Conway.”

“He ought to know better than to discuss the Japanese problem with you,” Farrel complained, and her father nodded vigorous assent.  Kay tilted her adorable nose at them.

“How delightful to have one’s intelligence underrated by mere men,” she retorted.

“Did Bill Conway indicate the direction of the tide of emigration from La Questa?” Farrel asked craftily, still unwilling to admit anything.  The girl smiled at him, then leaning closer she crooned for his ear alone: 

  He’s sleeping in the valley,
    The valley,
    The valley,
  He’s sleeping in the valley,
  And the mocking bird is singing where he lies.

“Are you glad?” he blurted eagerly.  She nodded and thrilled as she noted the smug little smile of approval and complete understanding that crept over his dark face like the shadow of clouds in the San Gregorio.  Mrs. Parker was riding in the front seat with the chauffeur and Kay sat between her father and Don Mike in the tonneau.  His hand dropped carelessly on her lap now, as he made a pretense of pulling the auto robe up around her; with quick stealth he caught her little finger and pressed it hurriedly, then dropped it as if the contact had burned him; whereat the girl realized that he was a man of few words, but—­