He had had other talks with Harney since the evening of his revelation. He was convinced that the man was telling the truth. He had known men before of Harney’s type and wondered why the drunkard had not made use of his knowledge for his own advancement. He had evidently kept his eye on both Shackleton and Moreau, and it was strange, that, as the two men rose to affluence, he had not used the ugly secret he held. The only explanation of it was that they held an even greater power over him. He had undoubtedly had reason to fear both men. Shackleton, once arrived at the pinnacle of his success, would have crushed like a beetle in his path this drunken threatener of his peace. Moreau, whose every movement he seemed to have followed, had evidently had a hold over him. Hold or no hold, Shackleton would have swept him aside by the power of his money and his position, into the oblivion that awaits the enemies of rich and unscrupulous men. Now both were dead. But the day of Harney’s power was over. Enfeebled in mind and body by drink and disease, he had neither the force nor the brain to be dangerous. His uses were merely those of an instrument in daring hands. And those hands had found him. There were long talks in Essex’s room in the evenings, during which the story was threshed out. George Harney, drunk or sober, neither contradicted himself nor varied in his details. His mind, confused and addled on other matters, retained this memory with unblurred clearness. So Essex deliberated, carefully and without haste, for there was plenty of time. The bright days continued. On a radiant Saturday afternoon, Mariposa, tired with a morning’s teaching, started forth to spend an hour or two in the park. She had done this several times before, finding the green peace and solitude of that beautiful spot soothing to her harassed spirit. It was a long ride in those days, and this had its charm, the little steam dummy cresting the tops of sandy hills, clothed with lupins and tiny frightened oaks, crouching before the sea winds. On this occasion she had invited the escort of Benito, who had been hanging drearily about the house, thinking with mingled triumph and envy of Miguel, who had gone with his mother to have a tooth pulled out. “Pulling the tooth’s bad, of course,” Benito had said to Mariposa, as he trotted by her side to the car, “but then afterward there’s candy. I dunno but what it’s worth while. And then you have the tooth.” “Have the tooth!” said Mariposa. “What do you want the tooth for?” “You can show it to the boys in school, and you can generally trade it. I traded mine for a knife with two blades, but both of ’em was broke.”