On the same morning that Doña Katarina stepped into the spotlessly kept room where her lodger slept and found the bed unrumpled and a note upon the chest of drawers, Don Anabel Lopez awoke and went through his house, having been absent during the preceding afternoon and late into the night at his ranch below in the valley. And shortly thereafter the noise of his wrath went through the house like a storm bursting. The household was assembled in the sala and its awed gaze directed to an empty frame where once had hung the Murillo “Madonna and Child.” Don Anabel’s face was white with anger and deep concern. He spoke quietly to his household now, describing what would be the consequences to the thief if he did not at once repent, and promised lenience if he did. Then began a rigorous examination into all the circumstances surrounding the moment when the picture had last been seen by each member of the hacienda. Consuelo had been in her room all week. Luis and Doña Gertrudis had together seen the picture just before siesta the day before. Doña Gertrudis had herself wakened Luis, but they noticed nothing later, for they had gone to supper through the patio and had sat at dinner late. It all came to nothing. He himself had been the last to see his cherished canvas, as far as he could learn. “_Dios mio!_ Had Don Tiburcio not departed four days before, I should be tempted even to think that his love for the thing had overpowered him.” Who else had left the Villa? Come, here was a path to follow. At length, among sundry trappers, Indians, peons, and one Franciscan friar, it was learned that the American youth was missing. Don Anabel seized upon his name at once as being in very likelihood the thief. To Consuelo the knowledge had come in a flash the moment her eyes rested upon the empty frame. Luis, the afternoon before. He had rolled up the canvas and passed it through the window. From that ordeal, Consuelo the child emerged Consuelo the woman. Luis did not leave the house that day, curiously enough, but lounged about in his room. Consuelo sent for him late in the afternoon. He heard her brave accusation brazenly, flippantly, but at the end he broke like a bad small boy. Yes, he had taken the painting, since she had seen him. But he pleaded on his knees that she would not betray him. He wept. He kissed her hands and face. Luis feared only one person in the world--his father. Consuelo, in turn, pleaded with her brother to get the painting back again. It would age their father. He could not, he swore. It was impossible. Impossible, he told her. But he would not say what he had done with it, why he could not get it back.