Colonel Joe Woods drains his glass in silence.
"My boy," he suddenly says, "Valois left an enormous estate; don't you come in anywhere?"
"I never knew of his will," replies Armand. "I want you, Colonel, to meet my old friend PŠre Fran‡ois, who was the priest at this Lagunitas. He tells me, a Judge Hardin has charge of all the property."
Joe Woods drops the knife with which he is cutting the tip of his imperial cigar.
"By Heavens! If that old wolf has got his claws on it, it's a long fight. I'll see your Padre. I knew him. Now, my boy," says Colonel Joe, "I've got no wife, and no children," he adds proudly.
"I'll take you over to California with me, and we'll see old Hardin. I'm no lawyer, but you ought to hear of the whole details. We'll round him up. Let's go up to my room and look at your picture."
Throwing the waiter a douceur worthy of his financial grade, the new friends retire to the Colonel's rooms.
Here the spoils of the jeweler, the atelier, and studio, are strangely mingled. Joe Woods buys anything he likes. A decanter of Bourbon, a box of the very primest Havanas, and a business-like revolver, lying on the table, indicate his free and easy ways.
Letters in heaps prove that "mon brave Colonel Woods" is even known to the pretty free-lances who fight under the rosy banner of Venus Victrix.
In hearty terms, the Californian vents his enthusiasm.