“But I am not blaming you, Miss Carmen,” he said gravely.  “It was stupid in me to confront you here with the property claimed by your uncle and occupied by me, but it was a mistake,—­no!” he added hastily, “it was not a mistake.  You knew it, and I didn’t.  You overlooked it before you came, and I was too glad to overlook it after you were here.”

“Of course,” said Carmen pettishly, “I am the only one to be blamed.  It’s like you men!” (Mem.  She was just fifteen, and uttered this awful ‘resume’ of experience just as if it hadn’t been taught to her in her cradle.)

Feminine generalities always stagger a man.  Thatcher said nothing.  Carmen became more enraged.

“Why did you want to take Uncle Victor’s property, then?” she asked triumphantly.

“I don’t know that it is your uncle’s property.”

“You—­don’t—­know?  Have you seen the application with Governor Micheltorena’s indorsement?  Have you heard the witnesses?” she said passionately.

“Signatures may be forged and witnesses lie,” said Thatcher quietly.

“What is it you call ’forged’?”

Thatcher instantly recalled the fact that the Spanish language held no synonym for “forgery.”  The act was apparently an invention of el Diablo Americano.  So he said, with a slight smile in his kindly eyes: 

“Anybody wicked enough and dexterous enough can imitate another’s handwriting.  When this is used to benefit fraud, we call it ‘forgery.’  I beg your pardon,—­Miss De Haro, Miss Carmen,—­what is the matter?”

She had suddenly lapsed against a tree, quite helpless, nerveless, and with staring eyes fixed on his.  As yet an embryo woman, inexperienced and ignorant, the sex’s instinct was potential; she had in one plunge fathomed all that his reason had been years groping for.

Thatcher saw only that she was pained, that she was helpless:  that was enough.  “It is possible that your uncle may have been deceived,” he began; “many honest men have been fooled by clever but deceitful tricksters, men and women—­”

“Stop!  Madre de Dios!  Will you stop?”

Thatcher for an instant recoiled from the flashing eyes and white face of the little figure that had, with menacing and clenched baby fingers, strode to his side.  He stopped.  “Where is this application,—­this forgery?” she asked.  “Show it to me!”

Thatcher felt relieved, and smiled the superior smile of our sex over feminine ignorance.  “You could hardly expect me to be trusted with your uncle’s vouchers.  His papers of course are in the hands of his counsel.”

“And when can I leave this place?” she asked passionately.

“If you consult my wishes you will stay, if only long enough to forgive me.  But if I have offended you unknowingly, and you are implacable—­”

“I can go to-morrow at sunrise if I like?”

“As you will,” returned Thatcher gravely.