“We—we’ve made a mistake?” she whispered to Florence.
“Wait!” was the answer.
The silence grew painful. “No,” Percy O’Hara said at last, as if there had been no silence. “We didn’t lose our way. In fact I could not lose myself up here if I tried. I’ve lived on this ridge for more than a year. We came—”
“Wait!” The tall man, whose hair was graying about the temples, held up a hand. “You need not go on. I understand perfectly. I—I’m sorry you came. But since you are here, you have a right to be told certain things. Won’t you be seated?”
He drew chairs to the fire, chairs with deep, soft cushions. As she sank into one of these Greta thought with a shudder how difficult it would be to rise from such a chair in a hurry, should necessity demand it.
“I—” their host began, “I am considered a rich man. In fact a company I control owns more than half this island. This shelter rests on my land. You have been camping, all of you, on my land.” He paused as if to permit the words to sink in.
“It is supposed,” he went on at last, “that rich men are the privileged ones of earth. Truth is they have few privileges. Here I am at the heart of an all but deserted island, living on my own land. I own every foot of land within ten miles of this spot! And yet, when I choose, I cannot be alone!”
“I wish we hadn’t come!” Greta whispered.
“Wait!” Florence replied once more.
At this juncture a very short chubby man with an air of briskness about him entered the room.