"Count on me!
Use the cable."
On the Atlantic the guardians agree on their duties. "I will
interview Madame de Santos when I close some business in London,"
says Woods grimly.
Peyton, with credentials to Padre Francisco, speeds from Liverpool
to Paris. He arrives none too soon.
Philip Hardin's villany strikes from afar!
Judge Hardin, passing the county seat, on his way to the mine,
looks in to obtain his annual tax papers. A voluble official remarks:
"Going to sell your mine, Judge?"
"Certainly not, sir," replies the would-be Senator, with hauteur.
"Excuse me. You sent for certified copies of the title. We thought
you were putting it on the market."
Hardin grows paler than his wont. Some one has been on the trail.
He asks no questions. His cipher-book is at San Francisco. Who is
on the track? He cannot divine. The man applying was a stranger
who attracted no attention. The Judge telegraphs to the mine for
his foreman to come to San Francisco. He returns to his house on
the hill. From his private safe he extracts the last letters of
Natalie de Santos.
Since her urgent appeal, she has been brief and cold. She is
waiting. Is this her stroke? He will see. Has anyone seen the child
and made disclosures? His heart flutters.
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