Having dined his guests, Farrel excused himself, strolled over to the railroad station and arranged with the agent for cattle cars to be spotted in on the siding close to town three days later.  From the station he repaired to the office of his father’s old attorney, where he was closeted some fifteen minutes, after which he returned to his guests, awaiting his return on the wide hotel veranda.

“Have you completed your business?” Parker inquired.

“Yes, sir, I have.  I have also completed some of yours.  Coming away from the office of my attorney, I noticed the office of your attorney right across the hall, so I dropped in and accepted service of the complaint in action for the foreclosure of your confounded old mortgage.  This time your suit is going to stick!  Furthermore, as I jogged down Main Street, I met Judge Morton, of the Superior Court, and made him promise that if the suit should be filed this afternoon he would take it up on his calendar to-morrow morning and render a judgment in your favor.”

“By George,” Parker declared, apparently puzzled, “one gathers the impression that you relish parting with your patrimony when you actually speed the date of departure.”

Mrs. Parker took Don Mike by the lapel of his coat.  “You have a secret,” she charged.

He shook his head.

“You have,” Kay challenged.  “The intuition of two women cannot be gainsaid.”

Farrel took each lady by the arm and with high, mincing steps, simulating the utmost caution in his advance, he led them a little way down the veranda out of hearing of the husband and father.

“It isn’t a secret,” he whispered, “because a secret is something which one has a strong desire to conceal.  However, I do not in the least mind telling you the cause of the O-be-joyful look that has aroused your curiosity.  Please lower your heads and incline your best ears toward me. . . .  There!  I rejoice because I have the shaggy old wolf of Wall Street, more familiarly known as John Parker, beaten at his favorite indoor sport of high and lofty finance.  ’Tis sad, but true.  The old boy’s a gone fawn. Le roi est mort! vive le roi!”

Kay’s eyes danced.  “Really, Miguel?”

“Not really or actually, Kay, but—­er—­morally certain.”

“Oh!” There was disappointment in her voice.  Her mother was looking at Don Mike sharply, shrewdly, but she said nothing, and Farrel had a feeling that his big moment had fallen rather flat.

“How soon will John be called upon to bow his head and take the blow?” Mrs. Parker finally asked.  “Much as I sympathize with you, Miguel, I dislike the thought of John hanging in suspense, as it were.”

“Oh, I haven’t quite made up my mind,” he replied.  “I could do it within three days, I think, but why rush the execution?  Three months hence will be ample time.  You see,” he confided, “I like you all so well that I plan to delay action for six months or a year, unless, of course, you are anxious for an excuse to leave the ranch sooner.  If you really want to go as soon as possible, of course I’ll get busy and cook Senor Parker’s goose, but—­”