“Well, that brings me to the point,” Bryant said.  “You’ve been too indulgent with Charlie, Mr. Menocal, as you once acknowledged to me.  You’ve given him too much money, too much admiration, too much head, and it has led him up against the bars of the state prison.  The question is whether or not I shall open the gate and push him in, as at first I determined to do on securing the proof in this leather sack.  If I thought he would keep on along his present line, I should say yes, merely as a matter of public policy, but I’ve had several days to think the thing over and have come to the conclusion he’ll soon realize his folly, if he doesn’t now.  And another restraint should be the good name and the happiness of his father.  I’m not vindictive, Mr. Menocal, and less on this day than I’ve ever been.  I don’t believe in causing people misery merely for the pleasure of inflicting it or because I happen to have the power.  We all have enough to contend with, as it is.  I don’t propose to ruin your position here, and end your influence, and blast your life, by sending your son to the penitentiary.  That would make me no happier, and would make a number of people infinitely wretched, while perhaps starting Charlie on the road to hell.  Very likely so.  I much prefer to see everyone cheerful and at work.  Suppose we ship this fellow yonder back to Mexico—­Winship can arrange that—­and destroy the checks, and tear up this sheet of Charlie’s record, so to speak.  Only one or two persons besides ourselves know of the matter and I’ll ask them to forget it.”

Lee struck a match and ignited the checks, holding them while they burned until at last he dropped them on the floor, where they blazed, curled up in strips of black ash, and were no more.  He glanced about at the others.  Winship was picking his teeth with a quill toothpick, with his mind apparently far away on other matters.  Morgan stolidly chewed tobacco and kept a wary eye on the bandit, Alvarez.  Charlie sat pale, limp, gazing at nothing.  The elder Menocal had lifted his eyes to Bryant, at whom he looked mistily; he appeared to have aged astonishingly, his cheeks having gone flabby, slack, and gray, while a slight tremour shook his head.

“That’s all, I guess,” Bryant said, briskly.  “We’ll just consider our relations established on the same footing they were before this occurrence.”

He put out a hand, smiling.  The banker struggled to his feet and clasped it in both of his.

“They shall not be on the same footing, but on a better one, Mr. Bryant, if it’s in my power to make them so,” he exclaimed, in a choked voice.

“That suits me right down to the ground, Mr. Menocal.”

The Mexican was silent.  His lips parted, quivered, and shut again.  His hold on the engineer’s hand tightened.

“I—­I can’t talk now, can’t say what I wish to say,” he said, mastered by feeling.  “When I’m more myself, when I can talk—­another time——­” He ceased, but presently finished, “Another time I’ll tell the gratitude in my heart.  Now my shame for my son and for myself——­Come, Charlie, take me home.”