“No, I cannot, Mr. Parker.”

Kay opened her purse and tossed the check across to her father.

“It was drawn in your favor, dad,” she informed him; “so I concluded it was your property, and when Mr. Farrel came by it—­ah, illegally—­and showed it to me, I retained it.”

“Good girl!  Mr. Farrel, have you any objection to my returning this check?”

“Not the slightest.  It has served its purpose.  However, you will have to wait until you meet Loustalot somewhere outside the boundaries of the Rancho Palomar, sir.  I had comforted myself with the thought that he was safe under lock and key here, but, to my vast surprise, I met him in the bank at El Toro making futile efforts to withdraw his cash before I could attach the account.  The confounded ingrate informs me that Mr. Okada turned him loose.”

There was no mistaking the disapproval in the glance which Parker turned upon Okada.

“Is this true, Mr. Okada?”

“It is not true,” Okada replied promptly.  “I know nozzing about.  Nozzing.”

“Well, Pablo thinks it is true, Mr. Okada.”  Don Miguel’s voice was unruffled, his manner almost benignant.  “The old man is outside, and absolutely broken-hearted.  His honor appears to be quite gone.  I imagine,” Don Mike continued, with a fleeting and whimsical glance at the potato baron, “that he has evolved some primitive plan for making his honor whole again.  Direct methods always did appeal to Pablo.”

“Mr. Farrel,” John Parker began, “I regret this incident more than I can say.  I give you my word of honor I had nothing to do with it directly or indirectly—­”

“John, for goodness’ sake, old dear, give Mr. Farrel credit for some common sense.  He knows very well you wouldn’t break bread with him and then betray him.  Don’t you, Mr. Farrel?” Mrs. Parker pleaded.

“Of course, Mr. Parker’s assurance is wholly unnecessary, Mrs. Parker.”

“Mr. Okada is leaving this afternoon,” Parker hastened to assure him.

“Mr. Okada shows commendable prudence.”  Don Mike’s tones were exceedingly dry.

Okada rose and bowed his squinch-owl bow.

“I very sorry,” he sputtered.  “I zink that man Pablo one big liar.  ’Scuse, please; I go.”

“If he hadn’t called Pablo a liar,” Don Mike murmured plaintively, “I should have permitted him to march out with the honors of war.  As the matter stands now, however, I invite all of you to listen attentively.  In a few minutes you’re going to hear something that will remind you of the distant whine of a sawmill.  After all, Pablo is a poor old fellow who lives a singularly humdrum existence.”

“Ah, yes; let the poor fellow have his simple little pleasures,” Mrs. Parker pleaded. “’All work and no play’—­you know, Don Miguel.”

“My dear,” Parker answered testily, “there are occasions when your sense of humor is positively oppressive.”