"My daughter," she repeated, with a short laugh, which, however,
ended with a note of defiance. "Of course you don't know. Well,"
she added half aggressively, and yet with the air of hurrying over
a compromising and inexplicable weakness, "the long and short of it
is I've got a little girl down at the Convent of Santa Clara, and
have had--there! I've been taking care of her--GOOD care, too,
boys--for some time. And now I want to put things square for her
for the future. See? I want to make over to her all my property--
it's nigh on to seventy-five thousand dollars, for Bob Snelling put
me up to getting those water lots a year ago--and, you see, I'll
have to have regular guardians, trustees, or whatever you call 'em,
to take care of the money for her."

"Who's her father?" asked the Mayor.

"What's that to do with it?" she said impetuously.

"Everything--because he's her natural guardian."

"Suppose he isn't known? Say dead, for instance."

"Dead will do," said the Mayor gravely. "Yes, dead will do,"
repeated Colonel Pendleton. After a pause, in which the two men
seemed to have buried this vague relative, the Mayor looked keenly
at the woman.

"Kate, have you and Bob Ridley had a quarrel?"

"Bob Ridley knows too much to quarrel with me," she said briefly.