"I shows you them assays of McPherson's, don't I?" argued Mizzou, "an' any quartz in this kentry that assays twenty-four dollars ain't no ways cheap."
This speech was so significantly in line with Bennington's surmise that he caught his breath and drew back cautiously out of sight, but still in such a position that he could hear plainly every word uttered by the group below. The girl was watching him with bright, interested eyes.
"Listen carefully!" he whispered, bringing his mouth close to her ear. "I think there's some sort of plot here."
She nodded ready comprehension, and they settled themselves to hear the following conversation:
"I saw the assay," replied the stranger's voice to Mizzou's last statement, "but who's this McPherson? How do I know the assays are all right?"
"Why, he's that thar professer at th' School of Mines," expostulated Mizzou.
"Oh, yes!" cried the stranger, as though suddenly enlightened. "If those are his assays, they're all right. Let's see them again."
There followed a rustling of papers.
"Well, I've looked over your layout," went on the stranger after a moment, "and pretty thoroughly in the last few days. I know what you've got here. Now what's your proposition?"
There was a pause.