“You shan’t go near him,” said Richards, fiercely, “with that shark of a father of his trying to swindle us every way he can.”
“Whatever his father is, Ned Carrington is a gentleman and my friend,” said Hastings, quietly.
“Tell him he can’t go,” Richards demanded of Mr. Wade. And his insistence was fatal. Mr. Wade would not have influenced his nephew at Richards’ dictation just now if Hastings had announced his intention of going to perdition.
Moreover, he trusted Hastings. And—this is an awful anti-climax—he wanted a nap.
“I hope you will find your friend home, Laurence,” he said, suavely. “Business quarrels can safely be ignored between gentlemen.”
Richards, watching the erect old figure disappearing in the landau toward the station, and the athletic young one striding off in the direction of the Star mine, hated them with an equal intensity.
* * * * *
John Carrington, dozing away on the great wicker divan on his broad veranda, in the warmth of a September afternoon, opened his eyes at the click of the gate.
The young man coming rapidly up the graveled walk was a stranger.
“Mr. Carrington?” he said, pleasantly.