Marie B‚rard's avenger is thousands of miles away from her grave, and his cunning plan already woven to ensnare the Italian when off his guard. Yet Hardin's blood boils to feel that "the secret for a price" is buried in Marie B‚rard's grave. Toss as he may, his dreams do not discover the lost secret. Even Philip Hardin may meet a Nemesis. Villa Rocca, slain by a well-contrived accident, died for a secret he knew not. His own hand slew the woman who knew alone of the changelings, save the bright and defiant ex-queen of the El Dorado. Dark memories hover around some of the great mines of the Pacific. Giant stock operations resulted from a seeming accidental fire. A mine filled with water by mysterious breakage of huge pumps. Hoisting machinery suddenly unmanageable; dashing to their doom unsuspecting wretches. Imprisoned miners, walled up in rich drifts, have died under stifling smoke, so that their secrets would die with them. Grinning Molochs of finance have turned markets on these ghastly tricks. Madame de Santos may never suspect how a steel spike adroitly set could cut a rope and dash even a noble Villa Rocca to his doom, carrying down innocent men as a mask to the crime. In the clear sky of Natalie's complacency, a lightning stroke of the gods brings her palace of delight crashing down around her. Nemesis! The telegraph flashes across the prairies, far beneath the Atlantic; the news of Villa Rocca's death arrives. Hardin's cable is brief. It is all-sufficient. Her trembling limbs give way. She reads: SAN FRANCISCO. Count Ernesto killed while visiting a mine, with friends. Accident of hoisting machinery. I was not there. Leave to-night for the place. Telegraph your wishes. Remain. Wait my reports. Write fully in a few days. HARDIN. She is all alone on earth. This is a crushing blow. No one to trust. None to advise, for she has leaned on Ernesto. Her mind reels under this blow. PŠre Fran‡ois is her only stay. The sorrow of these days needs expression. Villa Rocca's gay letters continue to arrive. They are a ghastly mockery of these hours. Hardin can cast her off now, and claim the heiress. Hardin's full account dispels any suspicion of foul play. After a visit to the interior, the count went to see some interesting underground workings. By a hazard of mining life, a broken rope caused the death of the visitor, with several workmen, and a mine superintendent who was doing the honors. Death waited at the foot of the shaft for the noble stranger. Hundreds of days, on thousands of trips like this, the princes of the Comstock have risked their own lives in the perils of the yawning pits. These dark holes blown out of the mountain rocks have their fearful death-rolls to show. It is the revenge of the gnomes. Every detail points to a frank explanation. Journals and reports, with letters from the Italian consul, lifted the sad tragedy above any chance of crime or collusion. It is kismet.