“He’s Jean’s grandfather—her mother’s father. They live up there in Denbeigh. Old man Gregory used to live down here; he had a little mine in the Sand Creek district, and ran it himself, but he couldn’t make it go. Then the Colonel got it away from him to put into the combine. He told the old man it was no good anyhow, but to help him out he’d pay him something down and more on the tonnage if they ever opened it again. See? Gregory had run a grocery on the side and bought goods of the Wayne-Craighill Company away back there. But the old man thinks the Colonel handed him the chilly mitt. And now the old man knows he is about all in and he wants to get what’s coming for Jean. And he’ll play the game out—he’s that kind. Every time he’s got ready to land one on the Colonel the Colonel side-steps—he side-steps, see? And Gregory’s a fine old gent that everybody’s robbed all his life. And if you didn’t know he was Jean’s grandfather, why have you all been chasing her—what’s she to you, say?”
Joe had flung much scorn into his recital—the fine scorn of his kind, with much use of the stiffened right arm and hand by way of gesticulation.
“This Gregory matter is none of your business, but to straighten you out a little, I’ll tell you that this is the first I knew of Miss Morley’s relationship to Gregory. As for my sister, I doubt if she ever heard of Gregory. Her interest in Miss Morley is pure friendliness and good will. And my father has never heard of Miss Morley, I’m sure of that. I’m telling you this not because you are entitled to it, but because you’ve always been a decent fellow and if you know these people it’s just as well you should have the straight of it as to our treatment of them. If old man Gregory has a just claim against my father it will be paid; and Miss Morley has nothing to do with it. And if you weren’t sick I’d give you a thrashing for speaking of that young woman as you have. I ought to do it for your outrageous conduct this afternoon anyhow. That’s too rank to be overlooked.”
“Well, you let her alone, you let her alone; that’s what I say! I saw you walkin’ with her; I followed you that night you took her home from the concert. I tell you, you can’t do it; you can’t do it! It’s all right about what you’ve done for me; I ain’t forgot it, and I ain’t goin’ to forget it. But you can’t have her; you can’t have her! And I’m goin’ away from here; I ain’t goin’ to work for you any more.”
Wayne rose to the spur of his own dignity. He could not be placed in the position of accounting to a half-delirious servant for his attentions to a young woman. He looked down at the crumpled figure on the bed contemptuously.
“You poor damned fool,” he said, and walked slowly toward the door.
He had not been in these upper rooms of the old barn since he had played in them as a child, during the reign of a favourite coachman. He glanced about for traces of the old times. There was an old-fashioned bureau between the windows littered with Joe’s humble toilet articles. Photographs of mighty lords of the diamond were tacked to the walls. With his hand on the door, Wayne’s glance fell upon the framed likeness of Jean Morley—a face younger than that he knew and sweet with the charm of young girlhood. The eyes met his; the lips smiled wistfully. He bent his head slightly and went out.
Joe crossed to the window and pressing his face to the cold pane watched Wayne running swiftly toward the house. Then he drew down the shade and snatched the picture from the wall. He gazed at it long and earnestly, with awe and wonder and fear alight in his eyes; then he restored it to its place with shaking hands and crept back to bed.
CHAPTER XXII
A CONFERENCE AT THE ALLEQUIPPA
ON THEIR return to the Allequippa Club Walsh and Wingfield sought a quiet corner of the smoking-room and sat down to take account of their adventures, Walsh with a steaming hot whiskey before him, Wingfield with his usual glass of koumiss, which he sipped sparingly. They were silent until Walsh’s cigar had begun to burn satisfactorily. It was he that spoke first.