Dick little knew, as he spoke so authoritatively, that his father was already in possession of these facts. Within an hour of Dick's departure, Mr. Carteret was walking through the old mission church, chatting with my brother Ajax. From Ajax he learned that at San Clemente, not twenty miles away, was another mission of greater historical interest and in finer preservation than any north of Santa Barbara. Ajax added that there was an excellent hotel at San Clemente, kept by two Englishmen, Cartwright and Crisp. Of course the name Crisp tickled the parson's curiosity, and he asked if this Crisp were any relation to the late Tudor Crisp, who had once lived in or near San Lorenzo. My brother said promptly that these Crisps were one and the same, and was not to be budged from that assertion by the most violent exclamations on the part of the stranger. A synopsis of the Rev. Tudor's history followed, and then the inevitable question: "Who is Cartwright?" Fate ordained that this question was answered by a man who knew that Cartwright was Carteret; and so, at last, the unhappy father realised how diabolically he had been hoaxed. Of his suffering it becomes us not to speak; of his just anger something remains to be said. He drove up to the San Clemente Hotel as the sun was setting, and both Dick and the 'Bishop' came forward to welcome him, but fell back panic-stricken at sight of his pale face and fiery eyes. Dick slipped aside; the 'Bishop' stood still, rooted in despair. "Is your name Crisp?" "Yes," faltered the 'Bishop.' "The Rev. Tudor Crisp?" "I--er--once held deacon's orders." "Can I see you alone?" The 'Bishop' led the way to his own sanctum, a snug retreat, handy to the bar, and whence an eye could be kept on the bar-tender. The 'Bishop' was a large man, but he halted feebly in front of the other, who, dilated in his wrath, strode along like an avenging archangel, carrying his cane as it might be a flaming sword. "Now, sir," said Dick's father, as soon as they were alone, "what have you to say to me?" The 'Bishop' told the story from beginning to end, not quite truthfully. "You dare to tell me that you hatched this damnable plot?" The 'Bishop' lied: "Yes--I did." "And with the money obtained under false pretences you bought a saloon, you, a deacon of the Church of England?" The 'Bishop' lied: "Yes--I did." "The devil takes care of his own," said the parson, looking round, and marking the comfort of the room. "Not always," said the 'Bishop,' thinking of Dick. "Well, sir," continued the parson, "I'm told that money can work miracles in this country. And, by God! if my money can sent you to gaol, you shall go there, as sure as my name is George Carteret." "All right," said the 'Bishop.' "I--er--I don't blame you. I think you're behaving with great moderation." "Moderation! Confound it! sir, are you laughing at me?" "The Lord forbid!" ejaculated Crisp. "Men have been shot for less than this."