"I shall also prove by documents, concealed by the administrator, that Maxime Valois never parted with the title to the Lagunitas mine; that the millions have been stolen, which it has yielded. I will bring in the evidence of the clerk who received these last letters from the absent owner in the field, that they are genuine. They state his utter inability to sell the mine, as the whole property belonged to his wife."
There is a blood-red film before Hardin's eyes now. Prudence flies after patience. It is his Waterloo. All is lost, even honor.
"I venture to remind your Honor, that even if the daughter, whom I produce here, is proved illegitimate, that she takes the whole property, including the mine, as the legal heir of her mother, under the laws of California." A murmur is suppressed by the clerk's hammer.
There is an awful silence as Judge Davis adds: "I will further produce before your Honor, Armand Valois, the only other heir of the decedent, to whom the succession would fall by law. He is named in the will I will establish, made twelve hours before the writer was killed at the battle of Peachtree Creek.
"I am aware," Judge Davis concludes, "that some one has forged the titles to the Lagunitas mine. I will prove the forgery to have been executed in the interest of Philip Hardin, the administrator, whom I now formally ask you to remove pending this trial, as a man false to his trust. He has robbed the orphan daughter of his friend. He deceived the man who laid his life down for the cause of the South, while he plotted in the safe security of distant California homes. Colonel Valois was robbed by his trusted friend."
A mighty shudder shakes the crowd. Men gaze at each other, wildly. The blinking Judge is dazed on the bench he pollutes. Before any one can draw a breath in relief, Hardin, bending himself below the restraining arms, springs to his feet and levels a pistol full at Joe Woods' breast.
"You hound!" he yells. His arm is struck up; Raoul Dauvray has edged every moment nearer the disgraced millionaire. The explosion of the heavy pistol deafens those near. When the smoke floats away, a gaping wound tells where its ball crashed through Hardin's brain. Slain by his own hand. Dead and disgraced. The senatorial laurels never touch his brow!
In five minutes the court is cleared. An adjournment to the next day is forced by the sudden tragedy. The wild mob are thronging the plaza.
Silent in death lies the man who realized at last how the awful voice of the dead Confederate called down the vengeance of God on the despoiler of the orphan.
The telegraph, lightning-winged, bears the news far and wide. By the evening PŠre Fran‡ois and Armand Valois return. In a few hours Natalie de Santos turns backward. The swift wheels speeding down the Truckee are slower than the electric spark bearing to the ex-queen of the El Dorado, the wife of a day, the news of her legal widowhood.