Gordon was holding up a picture for the girl's closest inspection.
"Say, it's sheer bull-headed luck I got this with me," he was saying. "I found it amongst my old papers and things when I left New York, and I sort of brought it along as a 'mascot.' The old dad's older than that now, but you can't mistake him. It's a bully likeness. Get it into your mind anyway, and then keep it with you."
Hazel gazed admiringly at the portrait of the man who claimed Gordon as his son. For the moment she forgot the purpose in hand.
"Isn't he just splendid?" she exclaimed. "You're—you're the image of him. Why, say, it seems the unkindest thing ever to—to play him up."
Gordon laughed.
"Don't worry that way. We're going to give him the time of his life." Then he glanced swiftly about him, and noted the emptiness of the depot. "I guess Peter's keeping the folks busy. He's a bright feller. I surely guess he's working overtime. Now you get things fixed right, Hazel. The train's coming along."
The girl nodded.
"You can trust me."
"Right." Gordon sighed. "I'll make tracks then. But I'll be around handy to see you don't make a mistake."
He left the depot and disappeared. Hazel stood studying the picture in her hand, and alternating her attention with the incoming train. She was in a happy mood. The excitement of her share in Gordon's plot was thrilling through her veins, and the thought that she was going to meet his father, the great multi-millionaire, left her almost beside herself with delighted interest.