Corrigan frowned and grunted. “His land is included in that of the Midland grant. He shall be treated like the others. If that is your only objection—”
“It isn’t,” said Benham. “I have discovered that ‘Brand’ Trevison is really Trevison Brandon, the disgraced son of Orrin Brandon, the millionaire.”
The darkness hid Corrigan’s ugly pout. “How did you discover that?” he said, coolly, after a little.
“My daughter mentioned it in one of her letters to me. I confirmed, by quizzing Brandon, senior. Brandon is powerful and obstinate. If he should discover what our game is he would fight us to the last ditch. The whole thing would go to smash, perhaps.”
“You didn’t tell him about his son being out here?”
“Certainly not!”
“Good!”
“What do you mean?”
“That it’s my land; that I’m going to take it away from Trevison, father or no father. I’m going to break him. That’s what I mean!” Corrigan’s big hands were clenched on the arms of his chair; his eyes gleamed balefully in the semi-darkness. J. C. felt a tremor of awed admiration for him. He laughed, nervously. “Well,” he said, “if you think you can handle it—”
They sat there for a long time, smoking in silence. One thought dominated Corrigan’s mind: “Three weeks, and exchanging confidences—damn him!”