“I mean it, Mr. Barrett. There are strange notions among some of the folks of the big woods. Your money is of no use. I advise you frankly not to offer it. At any rate, I’ll not insult MacLeod by being your messenger.”
The timber magnate whirled his chair and gazed away from Wade, looking into the depths of his big steel vault.
At the end of a few minutes Wade spoke to him, but he did not reply. When the young man accosted him again, after a decent pause, Barrett spoke over his shoulder without turning his face.
“The directors and myself will meet your party in the board-room across the hall in half an hour, Mr. Wade.”
It was not the voice of John Barrett. It was the thin, quavering tone of a man who was mourning, and wished to be left alone.
Wade went quietly away.
He was John Barrett once more when Wade saw him half an hour later at the head of the big table in the directors’ room. All the board was there except Britt.
The lumbermen whom Wade headed stood in solid phalanx at the foot of the room. There were no chairs for them. But they accepted this fact patiently.
Wade, a little in advance of his associates, looked into the face of the Honorable John Barrett, now impassive once more. But there was a strange gleam in the eyes. In the hush it seemed that the directors were waiting for Wade to speak—it was the coldly contemptuous silence of King Spruce ready to hearken.