His agent
returns and amplifies the general reports, but he has no new facts.
The clerk drops into his usual life. He is not curious as to the
Madame. "Some collateral business of the Judge, probably," is his
verdict.
While the stamps rattle away in the Lagunitas quartz mills, Judge
Hardin takes an occasional run to the city by the bay. The legislative
season approaches. Senator Hardin's rooms at the Golden Eagle are
the centre of political power. Railroads are worming their way into
politics. Franchises and charters are everywhere sought. Over the
feasts served by Hardin's colored retainers, he cements friendships
across old party lines.
As Christmas approaches in this year, the Judge receives a letter
from Natalie de Santos which rouses him from his bed of roses. He
steadies his nerves with a glass of the best cognac, as he reads
this fond epistle:
I have waited for you to refer to the future of our child. I will
not waste words. If you wished to make me happy, you would have,
before now, provided for her. I do not speak of myself. You have been
liberal enough to me. I am keeping up the position you indicated.
My child is now old enough to ask meaning questions, to be informed
of her place in the world and to be educated for it.
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