It was an anonymous letter (in Mrs. Plodgitt’s own awkward fist) advising him of the fact that his niece was bought by the enemy, and cautioning him against her.

“Impossible,” said the lawyer; “it was only last week she sent thee $50.”

Victor blushed, even through his ensanguined cheeks, and made an impatient gesture with his hand.

“Besides,” added the lawyer coolly, “she has been here to examine the papers at thy request, and returned them of yesterday.”

Victor gasped:  “And-you-you-gave them to her?”

“Of course!”

“All?  Even the application and the signature?”

“Certainly,—­you sent her.”

“Sent her?  The devil’s own daughter?” shrieked Garcia.  “No!  A hundred million times, no!  Quick, before it is too late.  Give to me the papers.”

Mr. Wood reproduced the file.  Garcia ran over it with trembling fingers until at last he clutched the fateful document.  Not content with opening it and glancing at its text and signature, he took it to the window.

“It is the same,” he muttered with a sigh of relief.

“Of course it is,” said Mr. Wood sharply.  “The papers are all there.  You’re a fool, Victor Garcia!”

And so he was.  And, for the matter of that, so was Mr. Saponaceous Wood, of counsel.

Meanwhile Miss De Haro returned to San Francisco and resumed her work.  A day or two later she was joined by her landlady.  Mrs. P. had too large a nature to permit an anonymous letter, written by her own hand, to stand between her and her demeanor to her little lodger.  So she coddled her and flattered her and depicted in slightly exaggerated colors the grief of Don Royal at her sudden departure.  All of which Miss Carmen received in a demure, kitten-like way, but still kept quietly at her work.  In due time Don Royal’s order was completed; still she had leisure and inclination enough to add certain touches to her ghastly sketch of the crumbling furnace.

Nevertheless, as Don Royal did not return, through excess of business, Mrs. Plodgitt turned an honest penny by letting his room, temporarily, to two quiet Mexicans, who, but for a beastly habit of cigarrito smoking which tainted the whole house, were fair enough lodgers.  If they failed in making the acquaintance of their fair countrywoman, Miss De Haro, it was through the lady’s pre-occupation in her own work, and not through their ostentatious endeavors.

“Miss De Haro is peculiar,” explained the politic Mrs. Plodgitt to her guests; “she makes no acquaintances, which I consider bad for her business.  If it had not been for me, she would not have known Royal Thatcher, the great quicksilver miner,—­and had his order for a picture of his mine!”

The two foreign gentlemen exchanged glances.  One said, “Ah, God! this is bad,” and the other, “It is not possible;” and then, when the landlady’s back was turned, introduced themselves with a skeleton key into the then vacant bedroom and studio of their fair countrywoman, who was absent sketching.  “Thou observest,” said Mr. Pedro, refugee, to Miguel, ex-ecclesiastic, “that this Americano is all-powerful, and that this Victor, drunkard as he is, is right in his suspicions.”