"You've sold?"
In a moment the last shadow of fear had passed out of the girl's pretty eyes. Now she was agog with excited admiration.
"Yes." The man nodded. "It had to be done carefully. I've been selling quietly for days and now it's finished. I didn't get the prices I hoped quite, but that was because I felt I dared not wait longer to clear up the general mess I'd made. Your father helped me, and I now sit here with a roll of precisely one hundred and five thousand dollars, and a definite promise to your father to fix things with the great James Carbhoy so no trouble is coming to any one—not even Slosson. I don't know. Now it's all over I'm sort of sorry. You know this sort of thing—the excitement of beating folks—is a great play. I want to be at it all the time."
"You've got to meet your father yet," said the girl warningly.
"The old dad? Why, yes, I s'pose I have." Gordon chuckled. "Say, I don't wonder folks taking to crooked ways. They just set your blood tingling like—like a glass of champagne on an empty stomach. Just look out there." He pointed at the new township. "Say, isn't it wonderful? All in a few weeks. And all the result of one man's crookedness."
"And your father has been a—prisoner—the whole time. Over seven weeks," rebuked the girl.
"But it's only three weeks since I met you that night on the trail, Hazel. No other time concerns me. Not even the dear old dad's captivity. That was the beginning of all things that matter for me."
"You seem to date everything around that—ridiculous episode," said Hazel slyly. "I——"
"I do."
"Don't interrupt me, sir. I was going to assure you that your proper spirit should be one of contrition for what you have made your father endure."