“Yes—­what is it?” John Martin demanded.  “Do you want to see me?”

“You’re Mr. Martin, I reckon!” the stranger replied in the soft drawl, characteristic of California.  “I’ve come to have a little talk with you on business.”

“With me—­on business!” John Martin cried.  “I don’t know you!  I’ve never seen you before!”

“You see me now anyway!” the stranger laughed, casting approving eyes at Gladys.  “My name’s Leon Hamar, and I’ve come to talk over that show of yours.”

“D—­n your impudence!” John Martin said, raising his stick threateningly.  “How dare you intrude upon me here on such a pretext.”

“Calmly, calmly, sir!” Hamar cried, his cheeks paling.  “I’ve come here with every intention of being civil.  I am chief partner in the Modern Sorcery Company Ltd., and as conjuring figures prominently in our programme I thought you might prefer to have us as friends rather than rivals.”

“I’m sure my father need not fear your rivalry,” Gladys broke in, meeting Hamar’s admiring gaze stonily.

Hamar bowed.

“If,” he said, “you desire a proof of our ability to accomplish what we profess, I will give that proof without delay.  With your per—­”

“You have no permission from me, sir,” John Martin cried fiercely.  “Go!”

Hamar merely shrugged his shoulders.  “You ought not to get so heated,” he said, “considering that exactly twenty feet below where you are standing is a spring.  All you have to do is to mark the spot, and sink a well, and there will be no need for you to use the Company’s water.  As you are probably aware, spring water is a thousand times clearer and purer.  Also,” he went on, stepping hastily back as John Martin again raised his stick, “in the trunk of that elm over yonder is a hollow about eight feet from the ground, and if you look inside it, you will discover an iron box full of curios and jewellery.  Shall I—­”

“No!” retorted John Martin.  “If you don’t go instantly I’ll send for the police,”—­and Hamar, coming to the conclusion that upon this occasion discretion was better than valour, hurriedly beat a retreat.

“You’ll be sorry, John Martin!” he shouted from a safe distance, “and so will Miss Gladys, charming Miss Gladys.  But remember you have only yourselves to blame.  Ta-ta!”, and the next moment he was lost to sight.

“Well!” Gladys ejaculated, “of all the beastly cads I have ever seen he fairly takes the biscuit.  What colossal cheek!  The idea of his coming here and speaking to us like that!  Can’t we prosecute him, Father?”

“Hardly!” John Martin replied, “best leave him alone.  I wish he hadn’t come!  He’s upset me!  My nerves are anyhow!  Which was the tree he spoke about?”

“This one,” Gladys exclaimed, walking up to an elm, and patting it with her hand, “but you surely don’t believe what he said, do you?  It was all rubbish from start to finish.  Daddy, my dear old Daddy, I do believe you are worrying about it.”