A few days at one of the new hotels convinced him thoroughly that he was in no danger of recognition, and gave him the assurance to take rooms more in keeping with his circumstances and his own frankly avowed position as the head of a South American house.  A cautious acquaintance—­through the agency of his banker—­with a few business men gave him some occupation, and the fact of his South American letters being addressed to Don Diego Smith gave a foreign flavor to his individuality, which his tanned face and dark beard had materially helped.  A stronger test convinced him how complete was the obliteration of his former identity.  One day at the bank he was startled at being introduced by the manager to a man whom he at once recognized as a former business acquaintance.  But the shock was his alone; the formal approach and unfamiliar manner of the man showed that he had failed to recognize even a resemblance.  But would he equally escape detection by his wife if he met her as accidentally,—­an encounter not to be thought of until he knew something more of her?  He became more cautious in going to public places, but luckily for him the proportion of women to men was still small in California, and they were more observed than observing.

A month elapsed; in that time he had thoroughly exhausted the local Directories in his cautious researches among the “Smiths,” for in his fear of precipitating a premature disclosure he had given up his former anonymous advertising.  And there was a certain occupation in this personal quest that filled his business time.  He was in no hurry.  He had a singular faith that he would eventually discover her whereabouts, be able to make all necessary inquiries into her conduct and habits, and perhaps even enjoy a brief season of unsuspected personal observation before revealing himself.  And this faith was as singularly rewarded.

Having occasion to get his watch repaired one day he entered a large jeweler’s shop, and while waiting its examination his attention was attracted by an ordinary old-fashioned daguerreotype case in the form of a heart-shaped locket lying on the counter with other articles left for repairs.  Something in its appearance touched a chord in his memory; he lifted the half-opened case and saw a much faded daguerreotype portrait of himself taken in Missouri before he left in the Californian emigration.  He recognized it at once as one he had given to his wife; the faded likeness was so little like his present self that he boldly examined it and asked the jeweler one or two questions.  The man was communicative.  Yes, it was an old-fashioned affair which had been left for repairs a few days ago by a lady whose name and address, written by herself, were on the card tied to it.