He stopped, with the snuffbox he had somewhat ostentatiously drawn from his pocket still open in his hand.
"Why is it not, Senor ?" he demanded.
"If she lives, she is a young lady by this time, and might not want the details of her life known to any one." "And how will you recognize your baby in this young lady ?" asked Father Pedro, with a rapid gesture, indicating the comparative heights of a baby and an adult.
"I reckon I'll know her, and her clothes too; and whoever found her wouldn't be fool enough to destroy them." "After fourteen years! Good! You have faith, Senor"-- "Cranch," supplied the stranger, consulting his watch.

"But time's up.
Business is business.

Good-by; don't let me keep you." He extended his hand.
The Padre met it with a dry, unsympathetic palm, as sere and yellow as the hills.

When their hands separated, the father still hesitated, looking at Cranch.

If he expected further speech or entreaty from him he was mistaken, for the American, without turning his head, walked in the same serious, practical fashion down the avenue of fig trees, and disappeared beyond the hedge of vines.