the isthmus."

"It is of little use," said Garcia, his eyes filmy with despair, as if he
were dying. "She will get there. The property will be hers."

"Not necessarily. He has simply invited her to live with him. She may not
suit."

"How?" demanded Garcia, open-eyed and open-mouthed with anxiety.

"He has simply invited her to live with him," repeated Coronado. "I saw
the letter."

"What! you don't know, then?"

"Know what?"

"Munoz is dead."

Coronado threw out, first a stare of surprise, and then a shout of
laughter.

"And here they have just got a letter from him," he said presently; "and I
have been persuading her to go to him by the isthmus!"

"May the journey take her to him!" muttered Garcia. "How old was this
letter?"

"Nearly three months. It came by sea, first to New York, and then here."

"My news is a month later. It came overland by special messenger. Listen
to me, Carlos. This affair is worse than you know. Do you know what Munoz
has done? Oh, the pig! the dog! the villainous pig! He has left everything
to his granddaughter."

Coronado, dumb with astonishment and dismay, mechanically slapped his boot
with his cane and stared at Garcia.

"I am ruined," cried the old man. "The pig of hell has ruined me. He has
left me, his cousin, his only male relative, to ruin. Not a doubloon to
save me.'

"Is there _no_ chance?" asked Coronado, after a long silence.

"None! Oh--yes--one. A little one, a miserable little one. If she dies
without issue and without a will, I am heir. And you, Carlos" (changing
here to a wheedling tone), "you are mine."

The look which accompanied these last words was a terrible mingling of
cunning, cruelty, hope, and despair.

Coronado glanced at Garcia with a shocking comprehension, and immediately
dropped his dusky eyes upon the floor.

"You know I have made my will," resumed the old man, "and left you
everything."

"Which is nothing," returned Coronado, aware that his uncle was insolvent
in reality, and that his estate when settled would not show the residuum
of a dollar.

"If the fortune of Munoz comes to me, I shall be very rich."

"When you get it."

"Listen to me, Carlos. Is there no way of getting it?"

As the two men stared at each other they were horrible. The uncle was
always horrible; he was one of the very ugliest of Spaniards; he was a
brutal caricature of the national type. He had a low forehead, round face,
bulbous nose, shaking fat cheeks, in