"Yes; you know her, I think, Mr. Poinsett," continued Grace, lifting her arched brows with cold surprise. "Manuela!"

Arthur turned pale and red. He was conscious of being not only awkward but ridiculous.

"Pardon me--perhaps I am troubling you--I will go myself," said Grace, contemptuously.

"One moment, Miss Conroy," said Arthur, instinctively stepping before her as she moved as if to pa.s.s him, "one moment, I beg." He paused, and then said, with less deliberation and more impulsively than had been his habit for the last six years, "You will, perhaps, be more forgiving to your brother if you know that I, who have had the pleasure of meeting you since--you were lost to us all--I, who have not had his pre-occupation of interest in another--even I, have been as blind, as foolish, as seemingly heartless as he. You will remember this, Miss Conroy--I hope quite as much for its implied compliment to your complete disguise, and an evidence of the success of your own endeavours to obliterate your ident.i.ty, as for its being an excuse for your brother's conduct, if not for my own. _I_ did not know you."

Grace Conroy paused and raised her dark eyes to his.

"You spoke of my brother's pre-occupation with--with the woman for whom he would have sacrificed anything--_me_--his very life! I can--I am a woman--I can understand _that_! You have forgotten, Don Arturo, you have forgotten--pardon me--I am not finding fault--it is not for me to find fault--but you have forgotten--Donna Maria Sepulvida!"

She swept by him with a rustle of silk and lace, and was gone. His heart gave a sudden bound; he was about to follow her, when he was met at the door by the expanding bosom of Colonel Starbottle.

"Permit me, sir, as a gentleman, as a man of--er--er--er--honour! to congratulate you, sir! When we--er--er--parted in San Francisco I did not think that I would have the--er--er--pleasure--a rare pleasure to Colonel Starbottle, sir, in his private as well as his--er--er--public capacity, of--er--er--a PUBLIC APOLOGY. Ged, sir! I have made it! Ged, sir! when I entered that _nolle pros._, I said to myself, 'Star., this is an apology--an apology, sir! But you are responsible, sir, you are responsible, Star.! personally responsible!'"

"I thank you," said Arthur, abstractedly, still straining his eyes after the retreating figure of Grace Conroy, and trying to combat a sudden instinctive jealously of the man before him, "I thank you, Colonel, on behalf of my client and myself."

"Ged, sir," said Colonel Starbottle, blocking up the way, with a general expansiveness of demeanour, "Ged, sir, this is not all. You will remember that our recent interview in San Francisco was regarding another and a different issue. That, sir, I am proud to say, the developments of evidence in this trial have honourably and--er--er--as a lawyer, I may say, have legally settled. With the--er--er--identification and legal--er--er--rehabilitation of Grace Conroy, that claim of my client falls to the ground. You may state to your client, Mr. Poinsett, that--er--er--upon my own personal responsibility I abandon the claim."

Arthur Poinsett stopped and looked fixedly at the gallant Colonel. Even in his sentimental pre-occupation the professional habit triumphed.

"You withdraw Mrs. Dumphy's claim upon Mr. Dumphy?" he said, slowly.

Colonel Starbottle did not verbally reply, but that gallant warrior allowed the facial muscles on the left side of his face to relax so that one eye was partially closed.

"Yes, sir,--there is a matter of a few thousand dollars that--er--er--you understand, I am--er--er--personally responsible for."

"That will never be claimed, Colonel Starbottle," said Arthur, smiling, "and I am only echoing, I am sure, the sentiments of the man most concerned, who is approaching us--Mr. Dumphy."

CHAPTER VIII.

IN WHICH THE FOOTPRINTS RETURN.

Mr. Jack Hamlin was in very bad case. When Dr. d.u.c.h.esne, who had been summoned from Sacramento, arrived, that eminent surgeon had instantly a.s.sumed such light-heartedness and levity toward his patient, such captiousness toward Pete, with an occasional seriousness of demeanour when he was alone, that, to those who knew him, it was equal to an unfavourable prognosis. Indeed, he evaded the direct questioning of Olly, who had lately const.i.tuted herself a wondrously light-footed, soft-handed a.s.sistant of Pete, until one day, when they were alone, he asked more seriously than was his wont if Mr. Hamlin had ever spoken of his relations, or if she knew of any of his friends who were accessible.

Olly had already turned this subject over in her womanly mind, and had thought once or twice of writing to the Blue Moselle, but on the direct questioning of the doctor, and its peculiar significance, she recalled Jack's confidences on their midnight ride, and the Spanish beauty he had outlined; and so one evening, when she was alone with her patient, and the fever was low, and Jack lay ominously patient and submissive, she began--what the doctor had only lately abandoned--probing a half-healed wound.

"I reckon you'd hev been a heap more comfortable ef this thing hed happened to ye down thar in San Antonio," said Olly.

Jack rolled his dark eyes wonderingly upon his fair persecutor.

"You know you'd hev had thet thar sweetheart o' yours--thet Mexican woman--sittin' by ye, instead o' me--and Pete," suggested the artful Olympia.

Jack nearly leaped from the bed.

"Do you reckon I'd hev rung myself in as a wandering cripple--a tramp thet hed got peppered--on a lady like _her_? Look yer, Olly," continued Mr. Hamlin, raising himself on his elbow, "if you've got the idea thet thet woman is one of them hospital sharps--one of them angels who waltz round a sick man with a bottle of camphor in one hand and a tract in the other--you had better disabuse your mind of it at once, Miss Conroy; take a back seat and wait for a new deal. And don't you go to talkin' of thet lady as my sweetheart--it's--it's--sacrilegious--and the meanest kind of a bluff."

As the day of the trial drew near, Mr. Hamlin had expressed but little interest in it, and had evidently only withheld his general disgust of Gabriel's weakness from consideration of his sister. Once Mr. Hamlin condescended to explain his apparent coldness.

"There's a witness coming, Olly, that'll clear your brother--more shame for him--the man ez _did_ kill Ramirez. I'm keeping my sympathies for that chap. Don't you be alarmed. If that man don't come up to the scratch I will. So--don't you go whining round. And ef you'll take my advice, you'll keep clear o' that Court, and let them lawyers fight it out. It will be time enough for you to go when they send for _me_."

"But you can't move--you ain't strong enough," said Olly.

"I reckon Pete will get me there some way, if he has to pack me on his back. I ain't a heavy weight now," said Jack, looking sadly at his thin white hands; "I've reckoned on that, and even if I should pa.s.s in my checks, there's an affidavit already sworn to in Maxwell's hands."

Nevertheless, on the day of the trial, Olly, still doubtful of Gabriel, and still mindful of his capacity to develop "G.o.d-forsaken mulishness,"

was nervous and uneasy, until a messenger arrived from Maxwell with a note to Hamlin, carrying the tidings of the appearance of Perkins in Court, and closing with a request for Olly's presence.

"Who's Perkins?" asked Olly, as she reached for her hat in nervous excitement.

"He's no slouch," said Jack, sententiously. "Don't ask questions. It's all right with Gabriel now," he added, a.s.suringly. "He's as good as clear. Run away, Miss Conroy. Hold up a minit! There, kiss me! Look here, Olly, say!--do you take any stock in that lost sister of yours that your fool of a brother is always gabbing about? You do? Well, you are as big a fool as he. There! There!--never mind now--she's turned up at last! Much good may it do you. One! two!--go!" and as Olly's pink ribbons flashed through the doorway, Mr. Hamlin lay down again with a twinkle in his eye.

He was alone. The house was very quiet and still; most of the guests, and the hostess and her a.s.sistant, were at the all-absorbing trial; even the faithful Pete, unconscious of any possible defection of his a.s.sistant, Olly, had taken the opportunity to steal away to hear the arguments of counsel. As the retreating footsteps of Olly echoed along the vacant corridor, he felt that he possessed the house completely.

This consciousness to a naturally active man, bored by illness and the continuous presence of attendants, however kind and devoted, was at first a relief. Mr. Hamlin experienced an instant desire to get up and dress himself, to do various things which were forbidden--but which now an overruling Providence had apparently placed within his reach. He rose with great difficulty, and a physical weakness that seemed altogether inconsistent with the excitement he was then feeling, and partially dressed himself. Then he was suddenly overtaken with great faintness and vertigo, and struggling to the open window, fell in a chair beside it. The cool breeze revived him for a moment, and he tried to rise, but found it impossible. Then the faintness and vertigo returned, and he seemed to be slipping away somewhere--not altogether unpleasantly, nor against his volition--somewhere where there was darkness and stillness and rest. And then he slipped back, almost instantly as it seemed to him, to a room full of excited and anxious people, all extravagantly, and as he thought, ridiculously concerned about himself. He tried to a.s.sure them that he was all right, and not feeling any worse for his exertion, but was unable to make them understand him. Then followed Night, replete with pain, and filled with familiar voices that spoke unintelligibly, and then Day, devoted to the monotonous repet.i.tion of the last word or phrase that the doctor, or Pete, or Olly had used, or the endless procession of Olly's pink ribbons, and the tremulousness of a window curtain, or the black, sphinx-like riddle of a pattern on the bed-quilt or the wall-paper. Then there was sleep that was turbulent and conscious, and wakefulness that was lethargic and dim, and then infinite weariness, and then lapses of utter vacuity--the occasional ominous impinging of the shadow of death.

But through this chaos there was always a dominant central figure--a figure partly a memory, and, as such, surrounded by consistent a.s.sociations; partly a reality and incongruous with its surroundings--the figure of Donna Dolores! But whether this figure came back to Mr. Hamlin out of the dusky arches of the Mission Church in a cloud of incense, besprinkling him with holy water, or whether it bent over him, touching his feverish lips with cool drinks, or smoothing his pillow, a fact utterly unreal and preposterous seen against the pattern of the wall-paper, or sitting on the familiar chair by his bedside--it was always there. And when, one day, the figure stayed longer, and the interval of complete consciousness seemed more protracted, Mr. Hamlin, with one mighty effort, moved his lips, and said feebly--

"Donna Dolores!"

The figure started, leaned its beautiful face, blushing a celestial rosy red, above his own, put its finger to its perfect lips, and said in plain English--

"Hush! I am Gabriel Conroy's sister."

CHAPTER IX.

IN WHICH MR. HAMLIN Pa.s.sES.

With his lips sealed by the positive mandate of the lovely spectre, Mr.

Hamlin resigned himself again to weakness and sleep. When he awoke, Olly was sitting by his bedside; the dusky figure of Pete, spectacled and reading a good book, was dimly outlined against the window--but that was all. The vision--if vision it was--had fled.

"Olly," said Mr. Hamlin, faintly.

"Yes!" said Olly, opening her eyes in expectant sympathy.

"How long have I been dr--I mean how long has this--spell lasted?"

"Three days," said Olly.

"The ---- you say!" (A humane and possibly weak consideration for Mr.