“Would you know yourself, Jack, what the property was worth,—­that is, do you feel yourself competent to pass upon its value?” asked Peter, lifting his glass to his lips.  He was getting back to his normal condition now.

“Yes, to a certain extent, and if I fail, Mr. MacFarlane will help me out.  He was superintendent of the Rockford Mines for five years.  He received his early training there,—­but there is no use talking about it, Uncle Peter.  I only told you to let you see how the same old thing is going on day after day at Uncle Arthur’s.  If it isn’t Mukton, it’s Ginsing, or Black Royal, or some other gas bag.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing,—­not in all the hour I talked with him.  He did the talking; I did the listening.”

“I hope you were courteous to him, my boy?”

“I was,—­particularly so.”

“He wants your property, does he?” ruminated Peter, rolling a crumb of bread between his thumb and forefinger.  “I wonder what’s up?  He has made some bad breaks lately and there were ugly rumors about the house for a time.  He has withdrawn his account from the Exeter and so I’ve lost sight of all of his transactions.”  Here a new idea seemed to strike him:  “Did he seem very anxious about getting hold of the land?”

A queer smile played about Jack’s lips: 

“He seemed not to be, but he was”

“You’re sure?”

“Very sure; and so would you be if you knew him as well as I do.  I have heard him talk that way to dozens of men and then brag how he’d ‘covered his tracks,’ as he used to call it.”

“Then, Jack,” exclaimed Peter in a decided tone, “there is something in it.  What it is you will find out before many weeks, but something.  I will wager you he has not only had your title searched but has had test holes driven all over your land.  These fellows stop at nothing.  Let him alone for a while and keep him guessing.  When he writes to you again to come and see him, answer that you are too busy, and if he adds a word about the ore beds tell him you have withdrawn them from the market.  In the meantime I will have a talk with one of our directors who has an interest, so he told me, in a new steel company up in the Cumberland Mountains, somewhere near your property, I believe.  He may know something of what’s going on, if anything is going on.”

Jack’s eyes blazed.  Something going on!  Suppose that after all he and Ruth would not have to wait.  Peter read his thoughts and laid his hand on Jack’s wrist: 

“Keep your toes on the earth, my boy:—­no balloon ascensions and no bubbles,—­none of your own blowing.  They are bad things to have burst in your hands—­four hands now, remember, with Ruth’s.  If there’s any money in your Cumberland ore bank, it will come to light without your help.  Keep still and say nothing, and don’t you sign your name to a piece of paper as big as a postage stamp until you let me see it.”