"Naturally."

"But not knowing the right name, by what happy inspiration did you
find the right grave? The man who told me what the name was said it
had been cut on the headboard."

"I don't know the right grave." Jaralson was apparently a trifle
reluctant to admit his ignorance of so important a point of his plan.
"I have been watching about the place generally. A part of our work
this morning will be to identify that grave. Here is the White
Church."

For a long distance the road had been bordered by fields on both
sides, but now on the left there was a forest of oaks, madronos, and
gigantic spruces whose lower parts only could be seen, dim and
ghostly in the fog. The undergrowth was, in places, thick, but
nowhere impenetrable. For some moments Holker saw nothing of the
building, but as they turned into the woods it revealed itself in
faint gray outline through the fog, looking huge and far away. A few
steps more, and it was within an arm's length, distinct, dark with
moisture, and insignificant in size. It had the usual country-
schoolhouse form--belonged to the packing-box order of architecture;
had an underpinning of stones, a moss-grown roof, and blank window
spaces, whence both glass and sash had long departed. It was ruined,
but not a ruin--a typical Californian substitute for what are known
to guide-bookers abroad as "monuments of the past." With scarcely a
glance at this uninteresting structure Jaralson moved on into the
dripping undergrowth beyond.

"I will show you where he held me up," he said. "This is the