He gave her a fatherly salute upon the forehead; a bright flush overspread her cheek as she bounded away. Brinkley watched her until she was out of sight, then he turned, and strolled quietly on in the direction of the caravan.
“It’s a strange game,” he said, “and requires careful playing. I wonder what my next move ought to be?”
He thought very deeply, but when he reached the caravan he found he had come to no definite conclusion as to his plans. He therefore partook cheerfully of the repast which Tim had prepared for him; and after he had smoked a couple of pipes in the open air, he retired to rest.
The next morning he began pondering again.
“I have got my trump card,” he said to himself, “but how to play up to it? I have a splendid hand, but it will want skilful playing if I am to win the game. One false move would do for me, for my opponents are crafty as foxes, and they are two against one. What is my right move, I wonder? I wish some good fairy would guide me!”
He took out his pipe, which was his usual consoler, and smoked while he took a few turns on the green sward outside the caravan.
Suddenly an idea struck him.
“I think I’ll pay a domiciliary visit to Mr. Monk,” he said. “I can meet him now on pretty equal terms. If I hint a few things to him, the amiable gentleman may think of becoming just.”
He called up Tim, and sent him on some trivial errand down to the village. As soon as he was well out of the way, Brinkley entered the caravan, produced some papers from the inner pocket of his coat, and locked them up securely in his trunk.
“So far so good,” he said. “My amiable friend may not be in an amiable mood, and I don’t wish him to get any advantage of me!”