Gashwiler started.  Not so Mrs. Hopkinson, who, however, prudently and quietly removed her own chair several inches from Gashwiler’s.

“Do you know Mr. Wiles?” she asked pleasantly.

“No!  That is, I—­ah—­yes, I may say I have had some business relations with him,” responded Gashwiler rising.

“Won’t you stay?” she added pleadingly.  “Do!”

Mr. Gashwiler’s prudence always got the better of his gallantry.  “Not now,” he responded in some nervousness.  “Perhaps I had better go now, in view of what you have just said about gossip.  You need not mention my name to this-er—­this—­Mr. Wiles.”  And with one eye on the door, and an awkward dash of his lips at the lady’s fingers, he withdrew.

There was no introductory formula to Mr. Wiles’s interview.  He dashed at once in medias res.  “Gashwiler knows a woman that, he says, can help us against that Spanish girl who is coming here with proofs, prettiness, fascination, and what not!  You must find her out.”

“Why?” asked the lady laughingly.

“Because I don’t trust that Gashwiler.  A woman with a pretty face and an ounce of brains could sell him out; aye, and us with him.”

“Oh, say two ounces of brains.  Mr. Wiles, Mr. Gashwiler is no fool.”

“Possibly, except when your sex is concerned, and it is very likely that the woman is his superior.”

“I should think so,” said Mrs. Hopkinson with a mischievous look.

“Ah, you know her, then?”

“Not so well as I know him,” said Mrs. H. quite seriously.  “I wish I did.”

“Well, you’ll find out if she’s to be trusted!  You are laughing,—­it is a serious matter!  This woman—­”

Mrs. Hopkinson dropped him a charming courtesy and said,

“C’est moi!”

CHAPTER XII

A RACE FOR IT

Royal Thatcher worked hard.  That the boyish little painter who shared his hospitality at the “Blue Mass” mine should afterward have little part in his active life seemed not inconsistent with his habits.  At present the mine was his only mistress, claiming his entire time, exasperating him with fickleness, but still requiring that supreme devotion of which his nature was capable.  It is possible that Miss Carmen saw this too, and so set about with feminine tact, if not to supplement, at least to make her rival less pertinacious and absorbing.  Apart from this object, she zealously labored in her profession, yet with small pecuniary result, I fear.  Local art was at a discount in California.  The scenery of the country had not yet become famous; rather it was reserved for a certain Eastern artist, already famous, to make it so; and people cared little for the reproduction, under their very noses, of that which they saw continually with their own eyes, and valued not.  So that little Mistress Carmen was fain to divert her artist soul to support her plump