There was a high fence of woven wire around the grove; through scented vistas, spotted with sunshine, fruit and blossoms hung together amid tender foliage of glossy green; palms and palmettos stood with broad drooping fronds here and there among the citrus trees, and the brown woody litter which covered the ground was all starred with fallen flowers.
The gate was open, and as Hamil stepped in he met a well-built, active man in white flannels coming out; and both halted abruptly.
"I am looking for Mr. Cardross," said the younger man.
"I am Mr. Cardross."
Hamil nodded. "I mean that I am looking for Mr. Cardross, senior—"
"I am Mr. Cardross, senior."
Hamil gazed at this active gentleman who could scarcely be the father of married children; and yet, as he looked, the crisp, thick hair, the clear sun-bronzed skin which had misled him might after all belong to that type of young-old men less common in America than in England. And Hamil also realised that his hair was silvered, not blond, and that neither the hands nor the eyes of this man were the hands and eyes of youth.
"I am Garret Hamil," he said.
"I recognise you perfectly. I supposed you older—until my daughter showed me your picture in the News two weeks ago!"
"I supposed you older—until this minute."