"Yes, Kate," he chuckled, "the murder's out at last. You see I'm not exactly prosperous, and my retired pay is a drop in my bucket of debts. And then our good friend Polly invested all her wealth in buying up the mortgage on this ranch."
"But why?"
"For fun. For the pleasure of turning me out. She kindly granted me permission to sleep in that old barrel which used to belong to my fox, but then you see I really couldn't be under any obligations to the lady."
"Did you pay off the mortgage?"
"I did. So Polly strums rag-time tunes on my piano, Brooke wears my early Victorian frock coat, they serve their beans and bacon with my family plate, the gentleman sports my crest, the lady has my dear mother's diamonds which are really paste. My dear, they're county society—you really must call and leave cards."
"But the portraits!"
"They stared at me so rudely that I burnt them. Ancestors ought to remember they're dead, and they'd rather be burned, too, than be claimed as Polly's aunts."
"And the Star Pack-train?"
"A half-interest, my dear, a half-interest, that's all."
"So you're in partnership?"