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When Gerald reached San Luis, the postoffice address of the Ugarte ranch, a disappointment awaited him. Evening was falling, and inquiry elicited the fact that Don Vincenza’s residence was still twelve miles distant. Ffrench, after his drive of eighteen miles over the dusty road from Marysville, was little inclined to go further, so he put up his horse at a livery stable, resolved to make the best of such accommodations as San Luis afforded.

The face of the man who took the reins when Ffrench alighted seemed familiar. The young fellow looked closer at him, and it was evident the recognition was mutual, for the stableman accosted him by name, and in the broad, familiar dialect of western Leinster.

“May I niver ate another bit if it isn’t Masther Gerald Ffrench!” he said. “Well, well, well, but it’s good for sore eyes to see ye. Come out here, Steve, an’ take the team. Jump down, Masther Gerald, an’ stretch yer legs a bit. It’s kilt ye are entirely.”

A swarthy little Mexican appeared, and led the tired horses into the stable. Then the young journalist took a good look at the man who seemed to know him so well, and endeavored, as the phrase goes, to “place him.”

“Ye don’t mind me, yer honor, an’ how wud ye? But I mind yersilf well. Sure it’s often I’ve druv ye and Mr. Edward too. I used to wurruk for Mr. Ross of Mullinger. I was Denny the postboy–Denis Driscoll, yer honor; sure ye must know me?”

“Oh yes, to be sure–I remember,” said Gerald, as recollection slowly dawned upon him. “But who’d have thought of finding you in a place like this? I didn’t even know you’d left Ross’s stables.”

“Six or siven months ago, yer honor.”

“And have you been here ever since? I hope you are doing well,” said Gerald.

“Iver since, sor, an’ doin’ finely, wid the blessin’ o’ God. I own that place,” pointing to the stable, “an’ four as good turnouts as ye’d ax to sit behind.”

“I’m glad of it,” said Gerald heartily. “I like to hear of the boys from the old neighborhood doing well.”

“Won’t ye step inside, sor, an’ thry a drop of something? Ye must be choked intirely wid the dust.”

“I don’t care if I do,” answered Gerald. “I feel pretty much as if I’d swallowed a limekiln.”

A minute later the two were seated in Denny’s own particular room, where Gerald washed the dust from his throat with some capital bottled beer, while his host paid attention to a large demijohn which contained, as he informed the journalist in an impressive whisper, “close on to a gallon of the real ould stuff.”

Their conversation extended far into the night; but long before they separated Gerald induced Denny to despatch his Mexican helper, on a good mustang, to the Ugarte ranch, bearing to Senor Vincenza Mr. Ffrench’s card, on which were penciled the words: “Please come over to San Luis as soon as possible. Most important business.”

For the tale told by the ex-postboy, his change of residence and present prosperity, seemed to throw a curious light on the Drim churchyard mystery.

Senor Vincenza appeared the following morning just as Gerald had finished breakfast. The ranchero remembered the representative of the Evening Mail and greeted him cordially, expressing his surprise at Gerald’s presence in that part of the country. The Spaniard evidently imagined that this unexpected visit had some bearing on the recently decided lawsuit, but the other’s first words dispelled the illusion.

“Senor Vincenza,” Ffrench said, “I have heard a very strange story about your sister, and I have come to ask you for an explanation of it.”

The young Spaniard changed color and looked uneasily at the journalist.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “I do not understand you. My sister is in Europe.”