Freeman shook his head. “I must speak,” said he. “I don’t care what becomes of me, so long as I stand right in your opinion,—your father’s and yours. I am here to find out whether this desert can be flooded,—irrigated,—whether it’s possible, by any means, to bring water upon it. If my report is favorable, the company will purchase hundreds, or thousands, of square miles, and, incidentally, my own fortune will be made.”
“Why, that’s the very thing——” She stopped.
“The very thing your father had thought of! Yes, so I imagined, though he has not told me so in so many words. So I’m in the position of surreptitiously taking away the prospective fortune of a man whom I respect and honor, and who treats me as a friend.”
Miriam walked on some steps in silence. “It is no fault of yours,” she said at last. “You owe us nothing. You must carry out your orders.”
“Yes; but what is to prevent your father from thinking that I stole his idea and then used it against him?”
“You can tell him the truth: he could not complain; and why should you care if he did? I know that men separate business from—from other things.”
They had now come to the little enclosed space where the fountain basin was; and by tacit consent they seated themselves upon it. Miriam gave an exclamation of surprise. “The water is gone!” she said. “How strange!”
“Perhaps it has gone to meet us at our rendezvous in the desert.—No: if I tell your father, I should be unfaithful to my employers. But there’s another alternative: I can resign my appointment, and let my place be taken by another.”
“And give up your chance of a fortune? You mustn’t do that.”
“What is it to you what becomes of me?”