“Signatures may be forged and witnesses lie,” said Thatcher quietly. “What is it you call 'forged'?” Thatcher instantly recalled the fact that the Spanish language held no synonym for “forgery.” The act was apparently an invention of el Diablo Americano. So he said, with a slight smile in his kindly eyes: “Anybody wicked enough and dexterous enough can imitate another's handwriting. When this is used to benefit fraud, we call it 'forgery.' I beg your pardon,--Miss De Haro, Miss Carmen,--what is the matter?” She had suddenly lapsed against a tree, quite helpless, nerveless, and with staring eyes fixed on his. As yet an embryo woman, inexperienced and ignorant, the sex's instinct was potential; she had in one plunge fathomed all that his reason had been years groping for. Thatcher saw only that she was pained, that she was helpless: that was enough. “It is possible that your uncle may have been deceived,” he began; “many honest men have been fooled by clever but deceitful tricksters, men and women--” “Stop! Madre de Dios! WILL YOU STOP?” Thatcher for an instant recoiled from the flashing eyes and white face of the little figure that had, with menacing and clenched baby fingers, strode to his side. He stopped. “Where is this application,--this forgery?” she asked. “Show it to me!” Thatcher felt relieved, and smiled the superior smile of our sex over feminine ignorance. “You could hardly expect me to be trusted with your uncle's vouchers. His papers of course are in the hands of his counsel.” “And when can I leave this place?” she asked passionately. “If you consult my wishes you will stay, if only long enough to forgive me. But if I have offended you unknowingly, and you are implacable--” “I can go to-morrow at sunrise if I like?” “As you will,” returned Thatcher gravely. “Gracias, Senor.” They walked slowly back to the house, Thatcher with a masculine sense of being unreasonably afflicted, Carmen with a woman's instinct of being hopelessly crushed. No word was spoken until they reached the door. Then Carmen suddenly, in her old, impulsive way, and in a childlike treble, sang out merrily, “Good night, O Don Royal, and pleasant dreams. Hasta manana.” Thatcher stood dumb and astounded at this capricious girl. She saw his mystification instantly. “It is for the old Cat!” she whispered, jerking her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the sleeping Mrs. P. “Good night,--go!” He went to give orders for a peon to attend the ladies and their equipage the next day. He awoke to find Miss De Haro gone, with her escort, towards Monterey. And without the Plodgitt. He could not conceal his surprise from the latter lady. She, left alone,--a not altogether unavailable victim to the wiles of our sex,--was embarrassed. But not so much that she could not say to Thatcher: “I told you so,--gone to her uncle. . . . To tell him ALL!” “All. D--n it, WHAT can she tell him?” roared Thatcher, stung out of his self-control.