Brand flicked his cigar ash lightly.
"A millionaire's virtues can be seen with the naked eye, my good fellow. Once you step into the dead man's shoes of which we were speaking just now, your friends and enemies alike will find you possessed of a thousand admirable qualities, to whose existence they were blind before. 'To him that hath shall be given' is about the only scriptural injunction that society ever lays to heart, you know."
"Oh, come now, that's a bit satirical," cried Cummings impatiently, flushing again. The pass had narrowed into a gloomy gorge, through which it was impossible for two to walk abreast. The younger man stopped short, glad of an excuse to change the conversation.
"What extraordinary country! Nothing but waste land. What's wrong with the soil? It was right enough by Bruchill. Whom on earth does this belong to?"
It was said of Henry Brand in Pall Mall clubs, that were he hurled headlong into the heart of Central Africa he would know the name and sum up the exact precedence of any tribe he came across.
He answered deliberately. "There are about thirty thousand acres of this desert all told. And it belongs to Farquharson of Glune.
"Farquharson of Glune," Cummings repeated. The name rang familiarly. "Didn't a Farquharson once marry one of the Kilmaurs? Stay—I seem to remember some story—wasn't there a rumour——" He broke off abruptly, knitting his brow.
"Stories! There have always been stories about Glune and its inmates, past and present," said Brand. "Tragedies mostly. The Farquharsons of Glune are all men of violence; leaders of forlorn hopes; knights-errant to distressed damsels, saints or outcasts; fierce heroes from whose doings tiresome bards make tiresome music—you know the sort of thing."
Cummings not only knew "the sort of thing," but held it very sacred, so he kept his peace.
"Well, what's the present Farquharson of Glune thinking about to let good land lie fallow like this?" he asked.