But Mr. Lawrence Grant's character in certain circumstances would seem
to have as startling and inexplicable contradictions as Clementina
Harcourt's, and three days later he halted his horse at the entrance of
Los Gatos Rancho. The Home of the Cats--so called from the catamounts
which infested the locality--which had for over a century lazily basked
before one of the hottest canyons in the Coast Range, had lately been
stirred into some activity by the American, Don Diego Fletcher, who had
bought it, put up a saw-mill, and deforested the canyon. Still there
remained enough suggestion of a feline haunt about it to make Grant
feel as if he had tracked hither some stealthy enemy, in spite of the
peaceful intimation conveyed by the sign on a rough boarded shed at the
wayside, that the "Los Gatos Land and Lumber Company" held their office
there.
A cigarette-smoking peon lounged before the door. Yes; Don Diego was
there, but as he had arrived from Santa Clara only last night and was
going to Colonel Ramirez that afternoon, he was engaged. Unless the
business was important--but the cool, determined manner of Grant, even
more than his words, signified that it WAS important, and the servant
led the way to Don Diego's presence.
There certainly was nothing in the appearance of this sylvan proprietor
and newspaper capitalist to justify Grant's suspicion of a surreptitious
foe.
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