Unfortunate as he was, another misfortune awaited him.  When he returned to the house where Garcia lay, he found that the old man, his sole relative and sole friend, had expired.  To Coronado this dead body was the carcass of all remaining hope.  The exciting drama of struggle and expectation which had so violently occupied him for the last six months, and which had seemed to promise such great success, was over.  Even if he could have resolved to kill Clara, there was no longer anything to be gained by it, for her money would not descend to Coronado.  Even if he should kill Thurstane, that would be a harm rather than a benefit, for his widow would hate Coronado.  If he did any evil deed now, it must be from jealousy or from vindictiveness.  Was murder of any kind worth while?  For the time, whether it were worth while or not, he was furious enough to do it.

If he did not act, he must go; for as everything had miscarried, so much had doubtless been discovered, and he might fairly expect chastisement.  While he hesitated a glance into the street showed him something which decided him, and sent him far from Monterey before sundown.  Half a dozen armed horsemen, three of them obviously Americans, rode by with a pinioned prisoner, in whom Coronado recognized Texas Smith.  He did not stop to learn that his old bravo had committed a murder in the village, and that a vigilance committee had sent a deputation after him to wait upon him into the other world.  The sight of that haggard, scarred, wicked face, and the thought of what confessions the brute might be led to if he should recognize his former employer, were enough to make Coronado buy a horse and ride to unknown regions.

Under the circumstances it would perhaps be unreasonable to blame him for leaving his uncle to be buried by Clara and Thurstane.

These two, we easily understand, were not much astonished and not at all grieved by his departure.

“He is gone,” said Thurstane, when he learned the fact.  “No wonder.”

“I am so glad!” replied Clara.

“I suspect him now of being at the bottom of all our troubles.”

“Don’t let us talk of it, my love.  It is too ugly.  The present is so beautiful!”

“I must hurry back to San Francisco and try to get a leave of absence,” said the husband, turning to pleasanter subjects.  “I want full leisure to be happy.”

“And you won’t let them send you to San Diego?” begged the wife.  “No more voyages now.  If you do go, I shall go with you.”

“Oh no, my child.  I can’t trust the sea with you again.  Not after this,” and he waved his hand toward the wreck of the brig.

“Then I will beg myself for your leave of absence.”

Thurstane laughed; that would never do; no such condescension in his wife!

They went by land to San Francisco, and Clara kept the secret of her million during the whole journey, letting her husband pay for everything out of his shallow pocket, precisely as if she had no money.  Arrived in the city, he left her in a hotel and hurried to headquarters.  Two hours later he returned smiling, with the news that a brother officer had volunteered to take his detail, and that he had obtained a honeymoon leave of absence for thirty days.