“By putting your men on those two knolls?”
“Yes.”
“And then what?”
“Then I’m going to Red Hills.”
“To Red Hills!” Tiffany sat up. There was more life in his voice.
“Yes.” Carhart laughed a little. “Why not?”
Tiffany half turned and looked earnestly into the face of this unusual man. The spectacles threw back the moonlight and concealed the eyes behind them. The lower part of the face was perhaps a trifle leaner than formerly. The mouth was composed. Tiffany found no answer there to the question in his own eyes. So he put it in words: “What are you going to do there, Paul?”
“See Commodore Durfee.”
“See—! Look here, do you know how mad he is? Do you think he came clear down here from New York, and shoved his old railroad harder than anybody but you ever shoved one before and hired the rascals that shot John Flint,—him playing for the biggest stakes on the railroad table to-day,—do you think he’ll feel like talking to the man who’s put him to all this trouble?”