"Ahem! Mr.--er--Cartwright. The name is not familiar to me, but I'll see the gentleman."

And so, after many years, father and son met as strangers. d.i.c.k fluently explained the nature of his errand. Mr. Carteret's letter had been given to him as the administrator of the late Mr. Tudor Crisp's estate. He happened to be in San Francisco, and, seeing Mr. Carteret's name in the morning paper, had ventured to call.

"And you, sir," said the father softly, "did you know my son?"

d.i.c.k admitted that he had known himself--slightly.

"A friend, perhaps? You are an Englishman." d.i.c.k pulled his beard.

"Ah!" sighed the father, "I understand. My poor lad was not one, I fear, whom anyone would hasten to call a friend. But if I'm not trespa.s.sing too much upon your time and kindness, tell me what you can of him. What good, I mean."

d.i.c.k kept on pulling his beard.

"Was there no good?" said the father, very sorrowfully. "His friend, Mr. Crisp, wrote kindly of him. He said d.i.c.k had no enemies but himself."

d.i.c.k was sensible that his task was proving harder than he had expected. He could not twist his tongue to lie about himself. Men are strangely inconsistent. d.i.c.k had prepared other lies, a sackful of them; and he knew that a few extra ones would make no difference to him, and be as balm to the questioning spirit opposite; yet he dared not speak good of the man whom he counted rotten to the core. The parson sighed and pressed the matter no further. He desired, he said, to see d.i.c.k's grave. Then he hoped to return to England.

Now d.i.c.k had made his plans. In a new country, where five years bring amazing changes, it is easy to play pranks, even in churchyards. In the San Lorenzo cemetery were many nameless graves, and the s.e.xton chanced to be an illiterate foreigner who could neither read nor write. So d.i.c.k identified a forlorn mound as his last resting-place, and told the s.e.xton that a marble cross would be erected there under his (d.i.c.k's) direction. Then he tipped the man, and bought a monument, taking care to choose one sufficiently time-stained. There are scores of such in every marble-worker's yard. Upon it were cut d.i.c.k's initials, a date, and an appropriate text. Within three days of the receipt of Mr. Carteret's letter, the cross was standing in the cemetery. None knew or cared whence it came. Moreover, d.i.c.k had pa.s.sed unrecognised through the town where he had once ruffled it so gaily as Lord Carteret. He had changed greatly, as he said, and for obvious reasons he had never visited the mission town since his bogus death and burial.

Thus it came to pa.s.s that d.i.c.k and his father travelled together to San Lorenzo, and together stood beside the cross in the cemetery.

Presently d.i.c.k walked away; and then the old man knelt down, bareheaded, and prayed fervently for many minutes. Later, the father pointed a trembling finger at the initials. "Why," he demanded querulously, "did they not give the lad his full name?" And to this natural question d.i.c.k had nothing to say.

"It seems," murmured the old man mournfully, "that Mr. Crisp, with all his kindness, felt that the name should perish also. Well, amen, amen.

Will you give me your arm, sir?"

So, arm in arm, they pa.s.sed from the pretty garden of sleep. d.i.c.k was really moved, and the impulse stirred within him to make full confession there and then. But he strangled it, and his jaw grew set and hard. As yet he was in ignorance of the change in his father's fortunes. Mr. Carteret a.s.sumed none of the outward signs of prosperity. He wore the clothes of a poor parson, and his talk flowed along the old channels, a limpid stream not without sparkle, but babbling of no Pactolian sands. And then, quite suddenly and simply, he said that he had fallen heir to a large estate, and that he wished to set aside so much money as a memorial of his son, to be expended as the experience of the bishop of the diocese might direct.

"You--you are a rich man?" faltered d.i.c.k.

"My son, sir, had he lived, would have been heir to five thousand a year."

d.i.c.k gasped, and a lump in his throat stifled speech for a season.

Presently he asked politely the nature of Mr. Carteret's immediate plans, and learned that he was leaving San Lorenzo for Santa Barbara on the morrow. d.i.c.k had determined not to let his father stray from his sight till he had seen him safe out of the country, but he told himself that he must confer with the 'Bishop' at once. The 'Bishop'

must act as go-between; the 'Bishop,' by Jove! should let the cat out of the bag; the 'Bishop' would gladly colour the facts and obscure the falsehoods. So he bade his father good-bye, and the old gentleman thanked him courteously and wished him well. To speak truth, Mr.

Carteret was not particularly impressed with Mr. Cartwright, nor sorry to take leave of him. d.i.c.k soon secured a buggy, and drove off. _En route_ he whistled gaily, and at intervals burst into song. He really felt absurdly gay.

The 'Bishop,' however, pulled a long face when he understood what was demanded of him. "It's too late," said he.

"Do you funk it?" asked d.i.c.k angrily.

"I do," replied his reverence.

"Well, he must be told the facts before he goes south."

d.i.c.k little knew, as he spoke so authoritatively, that his father was already in possession of these facts. Within an hour of d.i.c.k'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 a.s.sertion 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 d.i.c.k and the 'Bishop' came forward to welcome him, but fell back panic-stricken at sight of his pale face and fiery eyes. d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k'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 d.a.m.nable 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," said the 'Bishop,' thinking of d.i.c.k.

"Well, sir," continued the parson, "I'm told that money can work miracles in this country. And, by G.o.d! if my money can sent you to gaol, you shall go there, as sure as my name is George Carteret."

"All right," said the 'Bishop.' "I--er--I don't blame you. I think you're behaving with great moderation."

"Moderation! Confound it! sir, are you laughing at me?"

"The Lord forbid!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Crisp.

"Men have been shot for less than this."

"There's a pistol in that drawer," said the 'Bishop' wearily. "You can shoot if you want to. Your money can put me into gaol, as you say, and keep you out of it, if--if you use that pistol."

Mr. Carteret stared. The 'Bishop' was beginning to puzzle him. He stared still harder, and the 'Bishop' blushed; an awkward habit that he had never rid himself of. Now a country parson, who is also a magistrate, becomes in time a shrewd judge of men.

"Will you kindly send for my--for your partner?" he said suddenly.

"Please sit or stand where you are. I think you'll admit that I have a right to conduct this inquiry in my own way."

Accordingly, d.i.c.k was sent for, and soon he took his stand beside the 'Bishop,' facing the flaming blue eyes of his father. Then Mr.

Carteret asked him point blank the questions he had put to the other, and received the _same_ answers, the 'Bishop' entering an inarticulate demurrer.

"It appears," said Mr. Carteret, "that there are two ways of telling this story. One of you, possibly, has told the truth; the other has unquestionably lied. I confess," he added dryly, "that my sympathies are with the liar. He is the honester man."