“I thought so,” he interrupted with an indulgent yawn. “Well, do whatever makes for your happiness, my dear. That's all money is for.”
About two o'clock the following afternoon old Judge Moore, of the Superior Court of Humboldt County, drifted into Bryce Cardigan's office, sat down uninvited, and lifted his long legs to the top of an adjacent chair.
“Well, Bryce, my boy,” he began, “a little bird tells me your daddy is considering the sale of Cardigan's Redwoods, or the Valley of the Giants, as your paternal ancestor prefers to refer to that little old quarter-section out yonder on the edge of town. How about it?”
Bryce stared at him a moment questioningly. “Yes, Judge,” he replied, “we'll sell, if we get our price.”
“Well,” his visitor drawled, “I have a client who might be persuaded. I'm here to talk turkey. What's your price?”
“Before we talk price,” Bryce parried, “I want you to answer a question.”
“Let her fly,” said Judge Moore.
“Are you, directly or indirectly, acting for Colonel Pennington?”
“That's none of your business, young man—at least, it would be none of your business if I were, directly or indirectly, acting for that unconvicted thief. To the best of my information and belief, Colonel Pennington doesn't figure in this deal in any way, shape, or manner; and as you know, I've been your daddy's friend for thirty years.”
Still Bryce was not convinced, notwithstanding the fact that he would have staked his honour on the Judge's veracity. Nobody knew better than he in what devious ways the Colonel worked, his wonders to perform.