“That is another matter,” Don Anabel decided. “Of course he would succor his countryman. But to take a valuable painting is another thing. Yes, I think he might well do both.” As Don Anabel finished speaking, old Angel appeared in the door with a letter for _el padron_. He brought it to Don Anabel and there was a moment’s silence while it was read. Don Anabel rose to his feet, his lean brown cheeks alternately flushing and paling, and informed the startled company, “Quite apropos of our conversation comes this letter, from the gentleman himself--Señor Ess-tevan Mercer.” (Don Anabel almost hissed the name.) “He has at this moment returned to Santa Fe, brought by his conscience or his need, who can say, and he brings me back my canvas.” “Tst, tst, tst! _figure-se_; imagine,” clucked Doña Gertrudis. “What does he say, then?” “This.” Don Anabel opened the sheet which he still held in his hand and read aloud: “My Very Dear Sir: I have but just returned to Santa Fe, and bear with me your lost painting. At least, if I mistake not, it belongs to you,” (“The impudence of the rascal! Belongs to me indeed!”) “I am changing my clothes and refreshing myself somewhat from the fatigue and dust of the journey, but immediately thereafter I shall personally restore the picture to your house, if that is your wish.” “_Por los santos!_” Don Anabel exclaimed, “but this fellow has assurance. I’ll go fetch it myself, if this is not but a ruse. He is at Doña Katarina’s house.” Don Anabel threw on his black cloak, and stopping for a moment in his office, went forth from the front door. Consuelo was trembling; her hands and feet were like ice, her face flaming. She could scarcely maintain her composure. In the general chatter and excitement which followed Don Anabel’s astounding message she slipped unnoticed to her room, where Felicita was building up her mistress’s fire. “Felicita, he has returned! Ess-tevan. And he brings my father’s picture. How he found it I do not know. But here he is, and my father is again accusing him of the theft of it. He has gone off in haste to get his painting, his treasure. I should have told him at once, but I could not there before them all. That would have been worse for my father than never to have regained the picture. I must go tell him now. Quick; come with me. Perhaps we can overtake him.” She threw a black reboso over her head, and with Felicita close upon her heels fled through the garden and out the side gate. But it was already too late. By the time she reached Doña Katarina’s house, on foot, she saw her father emerging from the door. Felicita pulled her back. Instinctively they drew out of sight. She would have to tell Don Anabel when he returned home. Alas, poor Steven! what had her father said? Then a new thought struck her with cold terror. “Alas! _pobre de mi_, what will Ess-tevan think of me that I did not at least defend him? Does he know?” They crept back through the little lanes.