"I am aware," Judge Davis concludes, "that some one has forged the titles to the Lagunitas mine. I will prove the forgery to have been executed in the interest of Philip Hardin, the administrator, whom I now formally ask you to remove pending this trial, as a man false to his trust. He has robbed the orphan daughter of his friend. He deceived the man who laid his life down for the cause of the South, while he plotted in the safe security of distant California homes. Colonel Valois was robbed by his trusted friend." A mighty shudder shakes the crowd. Men gaze at each other, wildly. The blinking Judge is dazed on the bench he pollutes. Before any one can draw a breath in relief, Hardin, bending himself below the restraining arms, springs to his feet and levels a pistol full at Joe Woods' breast. "You hound!" he yells. His arm is struck up; Raoul Dauvray has edged every moment nearer the disgraced millionaire. The explosion of the heavy pistol deafens those near. When the smoke floats away, a gaping wound tells where its ball crashed through Hardin's brain. Slain by his own hand. Dead and disgraced. The senatorial laurels never touch his brow! In five minutes the court is cleared. An adjournment to the next day is forced by the sudden tragedy. The wild mob are thronging the plaza. Silent in death lies the man who realized at last how the awful voice of the dead Confederate called down the vengeance of God on the despoiler of the orphan. The telegraph, lightning-winged, bears the news far and wide. By the evening PŠre Fran‡ois and Armand Valois return. In a few hours Natalie de Santos turns backward. The swift wheels speeding down the Truckee are slower than the electric spark bearing to the ex-queen of the El Dorado, the wife of a day, the news of her legal widowhood. Henry Peyton brings back the traveller, whose presence is now absolutely needed. A lonely grave on the red hillside claims the last remains of the dark Chief of the Golden Circle. Few stand by its yawning mouth, to see the last of the man whose name has been just hailed everywhere with wild enthusiasm. Unloved, unhonored, unregretted, unshriven, with all his imperfections on his head, he waits the last trump. Alone in death, as in life. In the brief and formal verification of all these facts, the Court finds an opportunity to at once establish the identity of the heiress of Lagunitas. For, there is no contest now. In formal devotion to the profession, Hardin's lawyer represents the estate of the dark schemer. The legal tangles yield to final proofs.