"Absolutely confident, Mr. Hatch. I can't say whether Bantry Hagan worked up this scheme or not, with the idea of squeezing something out of us; but if he did he must have worked swiftly after the death of Del Norte. I'm more inclined to believe that by some chance he ran across Jalisco and was himself convinced that the document was genuine. The fact that I have so thoroughly investigated everything that might have the slightest bearing on the legality of my title to the San Pablo makes me absolutely confident that the Jalisco grant is a forgery."
"Well, you have settled Watson Scott's mind on that point, and Scott is not a man to make mistakes. The rest of us are ready to follow his lead."
"It's something of a relief to me," confessed Merry. "Of course, I was confident of coming out ahead of Del Norte, but the man kept me moving. As it has turned out, I don't feel it necessary to make a rush to Mexico, and I'll take my time about going West. If things pan out all right, I'll have some of my friends along, and we'll stop on the way at St. Louis and other places. I'm almost tempted to seek recreation in athletics and sports."
"You can choose your own course about that, Frank. If your business admits of it, I don't blame you for enjoying life through those sports in which you seem to take such a great interest. But you must stop with me a day or two. I want you to meet my boy, Arthur. He's a fine chap, but just a little inclined to be wild. I have to watch him closely to hold him down, and I'm afraid I don't hold him down all the time. I believe you'll like Art."
They chatted in this manner until Irvington was reached, where they left the train and entered Mr. Hatch's private carriage, which was waiting.
They were driven from the beautiful village to the splendid home of Mr. Hatch, which overlooked the Hudson.
A boy of seventeen or eighteen, with his head bare and his hands in his pockets, was standing on the veranda as they approached.
"There's Art now!" exclaimed Mr. Hatch. "Hello, Art!"
"Hello, dad," coolly responded the boy, without stirring.
"Here, Art, is Mr. Merriwell," said the banker, when they had left the carriage. "Mr. Merriwell, my son."