But Mr. Lawrence Grant's character in certain circumstances would seem to have as startling and inexplicable contradictions as Clementina Harcourt's, and three days later he halted his horse at the entrance of Los Gatos Rancho. The Home of the Cats--so called from the catamounts which infested the locality--which had for over a century lazily basked before one of the hottest canyons in the Coast Range, had lately been stirred into some activity by the American, Don Diego Fletcher, who had bought it, put up a saw-mill, and deforested the canyon. Still there remained enough suggestion of a feline haunt about it to make Grant feel as if he had tracked hither some stealthy enemy, in spite of the peaceful intimation conveyed by the sign on a rough boarded shed at the wayside, that the “Los Gatos Land and Lumber Company” held their office there. A cigarette-smoking peon lounged before the door. Yes; Don Diego was there, but as he had arrived from Santa Clara only last night and was going to Colonel Ramirez that afternoon, he was engaged. Unless the business was important--but the cool, determined manner of Grant, even more than his words, signified that it WAS important, and the servant led the way to Don Diego's presence. There certainly was nothing in the appearance of this sylvan proprietor and newspaper capitalist to justify Grant's suspicion of a surreptitious foe. A handsome man scarcely older than himself, in spite of a wavy mass of perfectly white hair which contrasted singularly with his brown mustache and dark sunburned face. So disguising was the effect of these contradictions, that he not only looked unlike anybody else, but even his nationality seemed to be a matter of doubt. Only his eyes, light blue and intelligent, which had a singular expression of gentleness and worry, appeared individual to the man. His manner was cultivated and easy. He motioned his visitor courteously to a chair. “I was referred to you,” said Grant, almost abruptly, “as the person responsible for a series of slanderous attacks against Mr. Daniel Harcourt in the 'Clarion,' of which paper I believe you are the proprietor. I was told that you declined to give the authority for your action, unless you were forced to by legal proceedings.” Fletcher's sensitive blue eyes rested upon Grant's with an expression of constrained pain and pity. “I heard of your inquiries, Mr. Grant; you were making them on behalf of this Mr. Harcourt or Harkutt”--he made the distinction with intentional deliberation--“with a view, I believe, to some arbitration. The case was stated to you fairly, I think; I believe I have nothing to add to it.” “That was your answer to the ambassador of Mr. Harcourt,” said Grant, coldly, “and as such I delivered it to him; but I am here to-day to speak on my own account.” What could be seen of Mr. Fletcher's lips appeared to curl in an odd smile. “Indeed, I thought it was--or would be--all in the family.”