tatively, that his father was
already in possession of these facts. Within an hour of Dick's
departure, Mr. Carteret was walking through the old mission church,
chatting with my brother Ajax. From Ajax he learned that at San
Clemente, not twenty miles away, was another mission of greater
historical interest and in finer preservation than any north of Santa
Barbara. Ajax added that there was an excellent hotel at San Clemente,
kept by two Englishmen, Cartwright and Crisp. Of course the name Crisp
tickled the parson's curiosity, and he asked if this Crisp were any
relation to the late Tudor Crisp, who had once lived in or near San
Lorenzo. My brother said promptly that these Crisps were one and the
same, and was not to be budged from that assertion by the most violent
exclamations on the part of the stranger. A synopsis of the Rev.
Tudor's history followed, and then the inevitable question: "Who is
Cartwright?" Fate ordained that this question was answered by a man
who knew that Cartwright was Carteret; and so, at last, the unhappy
father realised how diabolically he had been hoaxed. Of his suffering
it becomes us not to speak; of his just anger something remains to be
said.

He drove up to the San Clemente Hotel as the sun was setting, and both
Dick and the 'Bishop' came forward to welcome him, but fell back
panic-stricken at sight of his pale face and fiery eyes. Dick slipped
aside; the 'Bishop' stood still, rooted in despair.

"Is your name Crisp?"

"Yes," faltered the 'Bishop.'

"The Rev. Tudor Crisp?"

"I--er--once held deacon's orders."

"Can I see you alone?"

The 'Bishop' led the way to his own sanctum, a snug retreat, handy to
the bar, and whence an eye could be kept on the bar-tender. The
'Bishop' was a large man, but he halted feebly in front of the other,
who, dilated in his wrath, strode along like an avenging archangel,
carrying his cane as it might be a flaming sword.

"Now, sir," said Dick's father, as soon as they were alone, "what have
you to say to me?"

The 'Bishop' told the story from beginning to end, not quite
truthfully.

"You dare to tell me that you hatched this damnable plot?"

The 'Bishop' lied: "Yes--I did."

"And with the money obtained under false pretences you bought a
saloon, you, a deacon of the Church of England?"

The 'Bishop' lied: "Yes--I did."

"The devil takes care of his own," said the parson, looking round, and
marking the comfort of the room.

"Not always,"