Mills glanced at his watch and turned to press a button in a plate on the corner of his desk. Carroll appeared immediately.
“You said Shep was coming?” Mills inquired.
“Yes; he was to be here at five, but said he might be a little late.”
Mills nodded, asked a question about the survey of some land adjoining Deer Trail Farm for which he was negotiating, and listened attentively while Carroll described a discrepancy in the boundary lines.
“Is that all that stands in the way?” Mills asked.
“Well,” said Carroll, “Parsons shows signs of bucking. He’s thought of reasons, sentimental ones, for not selling. He and his wife moved there when they were first married and their children were all born on the place.”
“Of course we have nothing to do with that,” remarked Mills, slipping an ivory paper knife slowly through his fingers. “The old man is a failure, and the whole place is badly run down. I really need it for pasture.”
“Oh, he’ll sell! We just have to be a little patient,” Carroll replied.
“All right, but don’t close till the title’s cleared up. I don’t buy law suits. Come in, Shep.”
Shepherd Mills had appeared at the door during this talk. His father had merely glanced at him, and Shepherd waited, hat in hand, his topcoat on his arm, till the discussion was ended.