‘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.  Dick 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 Dick angrily.

“I do,” replied his reverence.

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

Dick little knew, as he spoke so authoritatively, 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.