Further explanations were prevented by a knock on the door. Carol opened it and ushered the three men into the room.
Blank surprise showed in the faces of all of them when they caught sight of Tom and Ned, who had risen on their entrance. The blank looks were quickly succeeded by looks of intense vexation. Thompson and Bragden, as the more diplomatic of the trio, banished these promptly, but Hankinshaw’s brows remained drawn together in a forbidding scowl.
“This is an unexpected pleasure,” said Thompson suavely, as the visitors seated themselves. “Who would have thought that you were down in this part of the country? On a little pleasure trip, I suppose?”
“More business than pleasure,” answered Tom coolly.
“Looking for contracts to make some more oil-well machinery?” asked Bragden.
“No,” returned Tom. “Though if any came our way we might consider them. We’re going to do a little digging on our own account.”
“In this neighborhood?” asked Thompson, looking with alarm at the papers that lay on the table near Judge Wilson’s elbow.
“Yes,” replied Tom, who was getting a little impatient at this cross-examination. “Right on this farm, if Mr. Goby and I can come to terms.”
“Cutting in under us, eh?” snarled Hankinshaw. “Poaching on our preserves.”
“That remark is quite uncalled for,” remarked Judge Wilson, entering the conversation for the first time since the introduction. “Why do you use the phrase ‘our preserves’? These gentlemen have no option or claim of any kind on the property, have they, Mr. Goby?” he continued, turning to the blind man.