A gentle, prescient smile fringed his old mouth; he wagged his
leonine head as if to say: "Why should I ask, when I know?" Fell
again a restful silence. Then:
"Am I allowed one guess, Miss Shirley Sumner?"
"Yes, but you would never guess the reason."
"I am a very wise old man. When one sits in the dark, one sees much
that was hidden from him in the full glare of the light. My son is
proud, manly, independent, and the soul of honour. He needed a
hundred thousand dollars; you knew it. Probably your uncle informed
you. You wanted to loan him some money, but--you couldn't. You feared
to offend him by proffering it; had you proffered it, he would have
declined it. So you bought my Valley of the Giants at a preposterous
price and kept your action a secret." And he patted her hand gently,
as if to silence any denial, while far down the skid-road a voice--a
half-trained baritone--floated faintly to them through the forest.
Somebody was singing--or rather chanting--a singularly tuneless
refrain, wild and barbaric.
"What is that?" Shirley cried.
"That is my son, coming to fetch his old daddy home," replied John
Cardigan. "That thing he's howling is an Indian war-song or paean of
triumph--something his nurse taught him when he wore pinafores. If
you'll excuse me, Miss Shirley Sumner, I'll leave you now.
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