Joe laughs as he beautifies a blank check with his order to himself, to pay to himself, five thousand one hundred and fifty dollars, and neatly indorses it, "Joseph Woods." "I guess that's the caper, Captain," he says. This "little formality" over, the wine goes to the right place THIS TIME. "Now I don't want to see you any more till I get your reminiscences of that lady," remarks Joe, reaching for his gold-headed club. "On time, ten o'clock," is the response of the police captain. "Have you seen her since, Joe? She was a high stepper," muses the Captain. He has been a great connoisseur of loveliness. Many fair ones have passed under his hands in public duty or private seance. "That's my business," sturdy Joe mutters, with an unearthly wink. "You give me back my check, old man, and I'll tell you what _I_ know." Lee laughs. "I'm not so curious, Colonel." They shake hands, and the gray old wolf goes to his den to muse over what has sent Joe Woods on a quest for this "fallen star." Lee wastes no time in mooning. The check is a "pleasing reality." The memories of Hortense Duval are dearer to Joe than to him. His pen indites the results of that watchful espionage which covers so many unread leaves of private life in San Francisco. There is an innocent smile on Woods' face when he strolls into his own office and asks Peyton to give him the evening in quiet. Strongly attracted by the Virginian, Woods has now a double interest in his new friend. In the sanctum, Woods says, "Peyton, I am going to tell you a story, but you must first show me the papers you have kept so long of poor Valois." Peyton rises without a word. He returns with a packet. "Here you are, Woods. I have not examined them yet. Now, what is it?" "You told me Valois made a will before he died, Peyton," begins Woods. "He did, and wrote to Hardin. He wrote to the French priest at his ranch." Woods starts. "Ha, the damned scoundrel! Go on; go on." Joe knows PŠre Fran‡ois never got that letter. "I read those documents. His letter of last wishes to Hardin. When I was in Havana, I found Hardin never acknowledged the papers." Woods sees it all. He listens as Peyton tells the story. "We have to do with a villain," says Joe. "He destroyed the papers or has hidden them. Colonel, open this packet." Joe's voice is solemn. With reverent hand, Peyton spreads the papers before the miner. There are stains upon them. Separating them, he arranges them one by one. Suddenly he gives a gasp. "My God! Colonel Joe, look there!" Woods springs to his side. It is a "message from the dead." Yes, lying for years unread, between the last letters of his wife and the tidings of her death, is an envelop addressed: Major Henry Peyton, Fourteenth Louisiana Inf'y, C.S.A." Tears trickle through Peyton's fingers, as he raises his head, and breaks the seal. "Read it, Major," says Woods huskily. He is moved to the core of his heart. It brings old days back. Peyton reads: