His rage and indignation a few days later may be readily conceived, when he found, on returning to his new-made home, another square of paper, folded like the first, but much fresher and whiter, lying within the cavity, on top of some moss¹⁶ which had evidently been placed there for the purpose. This he felt was really more than he could bear, but it was smaller, and with a few energetic kicks and whisks of his tail he managed to finally dislodge it through the opening, where it fell ignominiously¹⁷ to the earth. The eager eyes of the ever-attendant crow, however, instantly detected it; he flew to the ground, and, turning it over, examined it gravely. It was certainly not edible¹⁹, but it was exceedingly rare, and, as an old collector of curios, he felt he could not pass it by. He lifted it in his beak²⁰, and, with a desperate struggle against the superincumbent weight, regained²¹ the branch with his prize. Here, by one of those delicious vagaries²² of animal nature, he apparently at once discharged his mind of the whole affair, became utterly²³ oblivious²⁴ of it, allowed it to drop without the least concern, and eventually flew away with an abstracted air, as if he had been another bird entirely²⁵. The paper got into a manzanita bush, where it remained suspended until the evening, when, being dislodged by a passing wild-cat on its way to Mulrady's hen-roost, it gave that delicately sensitive marauder such a turn that she fled into the adjacent county.

But the troubles of the squirrel were not yet over. On the following day the young man who had accompanied the young woman returned to the trunk, and the squirrel had barely time to make his escape before the impatient visitor approached the opening of the cavity, peered into it, and even passed his hand through its recesses²⁶. The delight visible upon his anxious and serious face at the disappearance²⁷ of the letter, and the apparent proof that it had been called for, showed him to have been its original depositor, and probably awakened²⁸ a remorseful²⁹ recollection in the dark bosom³⁰ of the omnipresent crow, who uttered a conscious-stricken croak³¹ from the bough³² above him. But the young man quickly disappeared again, and the squirrel was once more left in undisputed possession.

A week passed. A weary, anxious interval³³ to Don Caesar, who had neither seen nor heard from Mamie since their last meeting. Too conscious of his own self-respect to call at the house after the equivocal conduct of Mrs. Mulrady, and too proud to haunt the lanes and approaches in the hope of meeting her daughter, like an ordinary lover, he hid his gloomy thoughts in the monastic shadows of the courtyard at Los Gatos, or found relief in furious riding at night and early morning on the highway. Once or twice the up-stage had been overtaken and passed by a rushing figure as shadowy as a phantom³⁴ horseman, with only the star-like point of a cigarette to indicate its humanity. It was in one of these fierce recreations that he was obliged to stop in early morning at the blacksmith's shop at Rough-and-Ready, to have a loosened horseshoe replaced, and while waiting picked up a newspaper. Don Caesar seldom read the papers, but noticing that this was the "Record," he glanced at its columns. A familiar name suddenly flashed out of the dark type like a spark from the anvil³⁶. With a brain and heart that seemed to be beating in unison³⁷ with the blacksmith's sledge³⁸, he read as follows:—

"Our distinguished³⁹ fellow-townsman, Alvin Mulrady, Esq., left town day before yesterday to attend an important meeting of directors of the Red Dog Ditch Company, in San Francisco. Society will regret to hear that Mrs. Mulrady and her beautiful and accomplished⁴⁰ daughter, who are expecting to depart for Europe at the end of the month, anticipated the event nearly a fortnight, by taking this opportunity of accompanying Mr. Mulrady as far as San Francisco, on their way to the East. Mrs. and Miss Mulrady intend to visit London, Paris, and Berlin, and will be absent three years. It is possible that Mr. Mulrady may join them later at one or other of those capitals. Considerable disappointment is felt that a more extended leave-taking was not possible, and that, under the circumstances, no opportunity was offered for a 'send off' suitable to the condition of the parties and the esteem⁴¹ in which they are held in Rough-and-Ready."

The paper dropped from his hands. Gone! and without a word! No, that was impossible! There must be some mistake; she had written; the letter had miscarried; she must have sent word to Los Gatos, and the stupid messenger had blundered; she had probably appointed another meeting, or expected him to follow to San Francisco. "The day before yesterday!" It was the morning's paper—she had been gone scarcely two days—it was not too late yet to receive a delayed message by post, by some forgetful hand—by—ah—the tree!

Of course it was in the tree, and he had not been there for a week! Why had he not thought of it before? The fault was his, not hers. Perhaps she had gone away, believing him faithless, or a country boor⁴³.

"In the name of the Devil, will you keep me here till eternity⁴⁴!"

The blacksmith stared at him. Don Caesar suddenly remembered that he was speaking, as he was thinking—in Spanish.

"Ten dollars, my friend, if you have done in five minutes!"

The man laughed. "That's good enough American," he said, beginning to quicken his efforts. Don Caesar again took up the paper. There was another paragraph that recalled his last interview with Mamie:—

"Mr. Harry⁴⁵ Slinn, Jr., the editor of this paper, has just moved into the pioneer house formerly⁴⁶ occupied by Alvin Mulrady, Esq., which has already become historic in the annals of the county. Mr. Slinn brings with him his father—H. J. Slinn, Esq.,—and his two sisters. Mr. Slinn, Sen., who has been suffering for many years from complete paralysis⁴⁷, we understand is slowly improving; and it is by the advice of his physicians that he has chosen the invigorating air of the foothills as a change to the debilitating⁴⁸ heat of Sacramento."

The affair had been quickly settled, certainly, reflected Don Caesar, with a slight chill of jealousy⁴⁹, as he thought of Mamie's interest in the young editor. But the next moment he dismissed it from his mind; all except a dull consciousness that, if she really loved him—Don Caesar—as he loved her, she could not have assisted in throwing into his society the young sisters of the editor, who she expected might be so attractive.

Within the five minutes the horse was ready, and Don Caesar in the saddle again. In less than half an hour he was at the wayside boulder⁵⁰. Here he picketed⁵¹ his horse, and took the narrow foot-trail through the hollow. It did not take him long to reach their old trysting-place. With a beating heart he approached the decaying trunk and looked into the cavity. There was no letter there!

A few blackened nuts and some of the dry moss he had put there were lying on the ground at its roots. He could not remember whether they were there when he had last visited the spot. He began to grope in the cavity with both hands. His fingers struck against the sharp angles of a flat paper packet: a thrill of joy ran through them and stopped his beating heart; he drew out the hidden object, and was chilled with disappointment.

It was an ordinary-sized envelope of yellowish-brown paper, bearing, besides the usual government stamp, the official legend of an express company, and showing its age as much by this record of a now obsolete⁵² carrying service as by the discoloration of time and atmosphere. Its weight, which was heavier than that of any ordinary letter of the same size and thickness, was evidently due to some loose enclosures, that slightly rustled⁵³ and could be felt by the fingers, like minute pieces of metal or grains of gravel¹⁸. It was within Don Caesar's experience that gold specimens⁵⁴ were often sent in that manner. It was in a state of singular preservation⁵⁵, except the address, which, being written in pencil, was scarcely discernible, and even when deciphered appeared to be incoherent and unfinished. The unknown correspondent had written "dear Mary," and then "Mrs. Mary Slinn," with an unintelligible⁵⁶ scrawl⁵⁷ following for the direction. If Don Caesar's mind had not been lately preoccupied⁵⁸ with the name of the editor, he would hardly have guessed the superscription.

In his cruel disappointment and fully⁵⁹ aroused indignation, he at once began to suspect a connection of circumstances which at any other moment he would have thought purely⁶⁰ accidental, or perhaps not have considered at all. The cavity in the tree had evidently been used as a secret receptacle for letters before; did Mamie know it at the time, and how did she know it? The apparent age of the letter made it preposterous⁶¹ to suppose that it pointed⁴² to any secret correspondence of hers with young Mr. Slinn; and the address was not in her handwriting. Was there any secret previous intimacy⁶² between the families? There was but one way in which he could connect this letter with Mamie's faithlessness. It was an infamous⁶³, a grotesquely⁶⁴ horrible idea, a thought which sprang as much from his inexperience of the world and his habitual⁶⁵ suspiciousness of all humor as anything else! It was that the letter was a brutal⁶⁶ joke of Slinn's—a joke perhaps concocted⁶⁷ by Mamie and himself—a parting insult that should at the last moment proclaim their treachery and his own credulity. Doubtless it contained a declaration of their shame, and the reason why she had fled from him without a word of explanation. And the enclosure, of course, was some significant and degrading illustration. Those Americans are full of those low conceits⁶⁸; it was their national vulgarity.

He had the letter in his angry hand. He could break it open if he wished and satisfy himself; but it was not addressed to HIM, and the instinct of honor, strong even in his rage, was the instinct of an adversary⁶⁹ as well. No; Slinn should open the letter before him. Slinn should explain everything, and answer for it. If it was nothing—a mere⁷⁰ accident—it would lead to some general explanation, and perhaps even news of Mamie. But he would arraign⁷¹ Slinn, and at once. He put the letter in his pocket, quickly retraced⁷² his steps to his horse, and, putting spurs to the animal, followed the high road to the gate of Mulrady's pioneer cabin.

He remembered it well enough. To a cultivated taste, it was superior to the more pretentious⁷³ "new house." During the first year of Mulrady's tenancy, the plain square log-cabin had received those additions and attractions which only a tenant⁷⁴ can conceive and actual experience suggest; and in this way the hideous⁷⁵ right angles were broken with sheds, "lean-to" extensions, until a certain picturesqueness⁷⁶ was given to the irregularity of outline, and a home-like security and companionship to the congregated⁷⁷ buildings. It typified the former life of the great capitalist, as the tall new house illustrated⁷⁸ the loneliness and isolation⁷⁹ that wealth had given him. But the real points of vantage were the years of cultivation⁸⁰ and habitation that had warmed and enriched the soil, and evoked⁸¹ the climbing vines and roses that already hid its unpainted boards, rounded its hard outlines, and gave projection⁸² and shadow from the pitiless glare of a summer's long sun, or broke the steady beating of the winter rains. It was true that pea and bean poles surrounded it on one side, and the only access to the house was through the cabbage rows that once were the pride and sustenance⁸³ of the Mulradys. It was this fact, more than any other, that had impelled⁸⁴ Mrs. Mulrady to abandon its site; she did not like to read the history of their humble⁸⁵ origin reflected in the faces of their visitors as they entered.

Don Caesar tied his horse to the fence, and hurriedly approached the house. The door, however, hospitably⁸⁶ opened when he was a few paces from it, and when he reached the threshold he found himself unexpectedly in the presence of two pretty girls. They were evidently Slinn's sisters, whom he had neither thought of nor included in the meeting he had prepared. In spite of his preoccupation, he felt himself suddenly embarrassed, not only by the actual distinction of their beauty, but by a kind of likeness^............