"By Jove! that's it. There's property or money hanging on her existence. Now, padre, I'll talk plain. You priests are pretty sly. You write your people about this child. I'll see you have money. My banker will work the whole municipality of Paris for you. "That's it; we've got it." The miner's fist makes the glasses rattle, as he quaffs his wine. "Don't lose sight of her a minute. Don't show your hand." The priest rolls home in Joe's carriage. He busies himself the next days with going to the bank, conferring with his fellows, and awaking the vigilance of Josephine. It is left to the priest and his ally from the ranks of "Mammon" to follow these tangled threads. The younger men know nothing, save the injunctions to Josephine. Ten days after this visit, Colonel Joe, who has run over to London, where he closed some financial matters of note, sends post-haste to PŠre Fran‡ois this note: "Come up, padre. I've got a whole history for you. It will make your eyes open. I want you to talk to the detective." Even the Californian's horses are not quick enough to-day for the priest. Ushered in, he finds Colonel Joe on the broad grin. Accepting a cigar, his host cries, "We've struck it rich. A mare's nest. Now, Vimont, give my friend your report." Joe Woods smokes steadily, as Jules Vimont reads from his note-book: "Madame Natalie de Santos arrived in Paris with two young girls, one of whom is at the Sacre-Coeur under the name of Isabel Valois; the other is the child who is visited by Marie Berard, her maid. She is called Louise Moreau." PŠre Fran‡ois listens to this recital. The detective gives a description of the beautiful stranger, and at length. Joe interrogates. The priest gravely nods until the recital is finished. Vimont shuts his book with a snap and disappears, at a nod from the miner. The friends are alone. PŠre Fran‡ois is silent. His face is pale. Joe is alarmed at his feeling. Forcing a draught of Bourbon on the padre, Joe cries, "What is the matter?" "I see it now," murmurs the priest. "The children have been changed. For what object?" He tells Woods of the proofs gained in days of Louise's illness. "Your little friend is the heiress of Lagunitas?" Woods asks. "I am sure of it. We must prove it." "Leave that to me," bursts out Joe, striding the room, puffing at his cigar. "How will you do it?" falters the priest. "I will find the father of the other child," Joe yells. "I am going to California. I will root up this business. I have a copy of Vimont's notes. You write me all you remember of this history. Meanwhile, not a word. No change in your game. You make foothold in that house on the Elysees. "There was no railroad when these people came here. I will get the lists of passengers and steamer reports, I have friends in the Pacific Mail."