He packs up his kit, and sends for a coupe. Giving orders as to the picture, he repairs to the home of the Dauvrays for his toilet. He tells PŠre Fran‡ois of his good fortune. "Joe Woods, did you say," murmurs the priest. "He was a friend of Valois. He is rich. Tell him I remember him. He knows who I am. I would like to see him." There is a strange light in Fran‡ois Ribaut's eye. Here is a friend; perhaps, an ally. He must think, must think. The old priest taps his snuff-box uneasily. In a "cabinet particulier" of the Grand Hotel restaurant, Woods pours out to the young man, stories of days of toil and danger; lynching scenes, gambling rows, "shooting scrapes," and all kaleidoscopic scenes of the "flush days of the Sacramento Valley." Armand learns his cousin's life in California. He imparts to the Colonel, now joyous over his "becassine aux truffes" and Chambertin, the meagre details he has of the death of the man who fell in the intoxicating hour of victory on fierce Hood's fiercest field. Colonel Joe Woods drains his glass in silence. "My boy," he suddenly says, "Valois left an enormous estate; don't you come in anywhere?" "I never knew of his will," replies Armand. "I want you, Colonel, to meet my old friend PŠre Fran‡ois, who was the priest at this Lagunitas. He tells me, a Judge Hardin has charge of all the property." Joe Woods drops the knife with which he is cutting the tip of his imperial cigar. "By Heavens! If that old wolf has got his claws on it, it's a long fight. I'll see your Padre. I knew him. Now, my boy," says Colonel Joe, "I've got no wife, and no children," he adds proudly. "I'll take you over to California with me, and we'll see old Hardin. I'm no lawyer, but you ought to hear of the whole details. We'll round him up. Let's go up to my room and look at your picture." Throwing the waiter a douceur worthy of his financial grade, the new friends retire to the Colonel's rooms. Here the spoils of the jeweler, the atelier, and studio, are strangely mingled. Joe Woods buys anything he likes. A decanter of Bourbon, a box of the very primest Havanas, and a business-like revolver, lying on the table, indicate his free and easy ways. Letters in heaps prove that "mon brave Colonel Woods" is even known to the pretty free-lances who fight under the rosy banner of Venus Victrix. In hearty terms, the Californian vents his enthusiasm. "By the way, my boy, I forgot something." He dashes off a check and hands it to the young painter. "Tell me where to send for a man to frame this picture in good shape," he simply says. He looks uneasily at the young man, whose senses fail him when he sees that the check is for five thousand francs.