She scarcely knew why she said it; but she was sensible of trouble, maybe of tragedy, somewhere; and she had a vague dread of she knew not what, for, hide it, avoid it, as she had done so often, there was in her heart an unhappy doubt concerning her father.
A great change had come over Lygon. Her presence had altered him. He was again where she had left him in the afternoon.
He heard her say to her father: “This was the man I told you of—at the reedy lake. Did you come to see me?” she repeated.
“I did not know you were here,” he answered. “I came”—he was conscious of Henderley’s staring eyes fixed upon his helplessly—“I came to ask your father if he would not buy my shack. There is good shooting at the lake; the ducks come plenty, sometimes. I want to get away, to start again somewhere. I’ve been a failure. I want to get away, right away south. If he would buy it, I could start again. I’ve had no luck.”
He had invented it on the moment, but the girl understood better than Lygon or Henderley could have dreamed. She had seen the change pass over Lygon.
Henderley had a hand on himself again, and the startled look went out of his eyes.
“What do you want for your shack and the lake?” he asked, with restored confidence. The fellow no doubt was grateful that his daughter had saved his life, he thought.
“Five hundred dollars,” answered Lygon, quickly.
Henderley would have handed over all that lay on the table before him, but he thought it better not to do so. “I’ll buy it,” he said. “You seem to have been hit hard. Here is the money. Bring me the deed to-morrow—to-morrow.”
“I’ll not take the money till I give you the deed,” said Lygon. “It will do to-morrow. It’s doing me a good turn. I’ll get away and start again somewhere. I’ve done no good up here. Thank you, sir—thank you.”