understand that! You have forgotten, Don Arturo, you have forgotten—pardon me—I am not finding fault—it is not for me to find fault—but you have forgotten—Donna Maria Sepulvida!"
She swept by him with a rustle of silk and lace, and was gone. His heart gave a sudden bound; he was about to follow her, when he was met at the door by the expanding bosom of Col. Starbottle.
"Permit me, sir, as a gentleman, as a man of—er—er—er—honor! to congratulate you, sir! When we—er—er—parted in San Francisco, I did not think that I would have the—er—er—pleasure—a rare pleasure to Col. Starbottle, sir, in his private as well as his—er—er—public capacity, of—er—er—a PUBLIC APOLOGY. Ged, sir! I have made it! Ged, sir! when I entered that nolle pros., I said to myself—I did, blank my blank soul!—I said, 'Star., this is an apology—blank me!—an apology, sir! But you are responsible, sir, you are responsible, Star.! personally responsible!'"
"I thank you," said Arthur abstractedly, still straining his eyes after the retreating figure of Grace Conroy, and trying to combat a sudden instinctive jealousy of the man before him,—"I thank you, Colonel, on behalf of my client and myself."
"Ged, sir," said Col. Starbottle, blocking up the way, with a general expansiveness of demeanor,—"Ged, sir, this is not all. You will remember that our recent interview in San Francisco was regarding another and a different issue. That, sir, I am proud to say, the developments of evidence in this trial have honorably and—er—er—as a lawyer, I may say, have legally settled. With the—er—er—identification and legal—er—rehabilitation of Grace Conroy, that claim of my client falls to the ground. You may state to your client, Mr. Poinsett, that—er—er—upon my own personal responsibility I abandon the claim."
Arthur Poinsett stopped and looked fixedly at the gallant Colonel. Even in his sentimental preoccupation the professional habit triumphed.
"You withdraw Mrs. Dumphy's claim upon Mr. Dumphy?" he said slowly.
Col. Starbottle did not verbally reply. But that gallant warrior allowed the facial muscles on the left side of his face to relax so that one eye was partially closed.
"Yes, sir,—there is a matter of a few thousand dollars that—er—er—you understand I am—er—er—personally responsible for."
"That will never be claimed, Col. Starbottle," said Arthur, smiling, "and I am only echoing, I am sure, the sentiments of the man most concerned, who is approaching us—Mr. Dumphy!"
CHAPTER LII.
IN WHICH THE FOOT-PRINTS RETURN.
Mr. Jack Hamlin was in very bad case. When Dr. Duchesne, who had been summoned from Sacramento, arrived, that eminent surgeon had instantly assumed such light-heartedness and levity toward his patient, such captiousness toward Pete, with an occasional seriousness of demeanor when he was alone, that, to those who knew him, it was equal to an unfavorable prognosis. Indeed, he evaded the direct questioning of Olly, who had lately constituted herself a wondrously light-footed, soft-handed assistant of Pete, until one day when they were alone, he asked, more seriously than was his wont, if Mr. Hamlin had ever spoken of his relations, or if she knew of any of his friends who were accessible.
Olly had already turned this subject over in her womanly mind, and had thought once or twice of writing to the Blue Moselle; but on the direct questioning of the doctor and its peculiar significance, she recalled Jack's confidences on their midnight ride, and the Spanish beauty he had outlined. And so one evening, when she was alone with her patient, and the fever was low, and Jack lay ominously patient and submissive, she began—what the doctor had only lately abandoned—probing a half-healed wound.
"I reckon you'd hev' been a heap more comfortable ef this thing hed happened to ye down thar in San Antonio," said Olly.
Jack rolled his dark eyes wonderingly upon his fair persecutor.
"You know you'd hev had thet thar sweetheart o' yours—thet Mexican woman—sittin' by ye, instead o' me—and Pete," suggested the artful Olympia.
Jack nearly leaped from the bed.
"Do you reckon I'd hev rung myself in as a wandering cripple—a tramp thet hed got peppered—on a lady like her? Look yer, Olly," continued Mr. Hamlin, raising himself on his elbow; "if you've got the idea thet thet woman is one of them hospital sharps—one of them angels who waltz round a sick man with a bottle of camphor in one hand and a tract in the other—you had better disabuse your mind of it at once, Miss Conroy; take a back seat and wait for
