Bob was silent, too, but his thoughts were not on a problematical fortune. He was wondering, with a quickened beating of his heart, how his mother’s sisters would look and whether he should be able to see in them anything of the girlish face in the long-treasured little picture that was one of the few valuables in the black tin box.
“There’s a team ahead,” said Betty suddenly.
Her quick ears had caught the sound of wheels, and though it was almost dark now, no lantern was lit on the rattling buggy to which they presently caught up. The rig made such a noise, added to the breathing of the bony horse that was suffering from a bad case of that malady popularly known among farmers as “the heaves,” that the occupants were forced to raise their voices to make themselves heard. The top was up and it was impossible to see who was inside.
“I tell you, let me handle it, and I’ll make you thousands,” some one was saying as they passed the buggy single file. “I can manage women and their money, and I don’t believe the idea of oil has as much as entered their heads.”
“Always oil,” thought Bob, hurrying his horse to catch up with Betty. “In Oklahoma the stuff that dreams are made of comes up through an iron derrick, that’s sure.”
At the Saunders place, bathed in faint moonlight, they found Doctor Morrison’s car, and a light in the window told that he was waiting for them.
“Didn’t know whether you would make it to-night or not,” was his greeting, as they went around to the kitchen door and he opened it to show the room brightly lighted by two lamps. “Both patients are asleep. Miss Charity has laryngitis and Miss Hope a very heavy cold. But I think the worst is over.”
He stopped, and shot a keen glance at Bob.
“Funny,” he said abruptly. “For the moment I would have said you looked enough like Miss Hope to have been her younger brother.”
Bob merely smiled at the doctor’s remark, for he did not want the relationship to be guessed before his aunts had recognized him.