It is an affair of the
alcalde--the authorities--of your--your police."
"Is it?"
The Padre again met the stranger's eyes. He stopped, with the snuff box
he had somewhat ostentatiously drawn from his pocket still open in his
hand.
"Why is it not, Senor?" he demanded.
"If she lives, she is a young lady by this time, and might not want the
details of her life known to any one."
"And how will you recognize your baby in this young lady?" asked Father
Pedro, with a rapid gesture, indicating the comparative heights of a
baby and an adult.
"I reckon I'll know her, and her clothes too; and whoever found her
wouldn't be fool enough to destroy them."
"After fourteen years! Good! you have faith, Senor--"
"Cranch," supplied the stranger, consulting his watch. "But time's up.
Business is business. Good-by; don't let me keep you."
He extended his hand.
The Padre met it with a dry, unsympathetic palm, as sere and yellow
as the hills. When their hands separated, the father still hesitated,
looking at Cranch.
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