“I claim that this is impertinent.”
“Is it true?”
“I decline to answer. My private investments are simply none of your business.”
Corrigan sank back in his chair and drew a long breath. “There,” he said, “that's all I wanted to know. I think you'll agree with me, gentlemen, that we can't keep up these relations any longer. Suppose we hear the report now.”
It was half-past two when the door was opened and a score of heated, hungry men came out for lunch. Bigelow had recovered and made a strong fight, but the sentiment was overwhelmingly against him. The managership had been offered to Corrigan; he had declined and stood out for dissolution on the ground that during the dozen or fifteen years that remained before the timber should be all cut out there was room for them all without any damaging competition. And so before they broke up the lumber agreement was abrogated. And in a few days, as soon as matters could be settled, the lumber world would know it.
Eastward sped Halloran, on to the Hudson, on up the crooked mountain railroad to the junction village, on up the wagon road behind a team of crawling white horses; reaching at last the house perched on the mountainside, lost in billows of autumn flame. Yes, Miss Davies was still there. The wife of the proprietor had seen her shortly before, walking up the trail behind the house.
He found her standing in a tangle of late blackberries, hatless, her sleeves rolled to the elbow, reaching up to break off a crimson maple branch. She heard him crashing through brake and bramble, and turned. He did not see that she changed colour, she was so browned by the mountain sun—but she was startled. She did not move, but stood, holding the branch and looking at him without a word.
“How do you do?” he said, shaking hands. “Hardly expected to see me, did you?”
“No. This is a surprise. When did you get here?”
“Just now.”