Shirley, as explained in a preceding chapter, had been present the night John Cardigan, desperate and brought to bay at last, had telephoned Pennington at the latter’s home, accepting Pennington’s last offer for the Valley of the Giants.  The cruel triumph in the Colonel’s handsome face as he curtly rebuffed old Cardigan had been too apparent for the girl to mistake; recalling her conversation with him anent the impending possibility of his doing business with John Cardigan’s receiver or executor, she realized now that a crisis had come in the affairs of the Cardigans, and across her vision there flashed again the vision of Bryce Cardigan’s homecoming—­of a tall old man with his trembling arms clasped around his boy, with grizzled cheek laid against his son’s, as one who, seeking comfort through bitter years, at length had found it.

Presently another thought came to Shirley.  She knew Bryce Cardigan was far from being indifferent to her; she had given him his opportunity to be friendly with her again, and he had chosen to ignore her though sorely against his will.  For weeks Shirley had pondered this mysterious action, and now she thought she caught a glimpse of the reason underlying it all.  In Sequoia, Bryce Cardigan was regarded as the heir to the throne of Humboldt’s first timber-king, but Shirley knew now that as a timber-king, Bryce Cardigan bade fair to wear a tinsel crown.  Was it this knowledge that had led him to avoid her?

“I wonder,” she mused.  “He’s proud.  Perhaps the realization that he will soon be penniless and shorn of his high estate has made him chary of acquiring new friends in his old circle.  Perhaps if he were secure in his business affairs—­Ah, yes!  Poor boy!  He was desperate for fifty thousand dollars!” Her heart swelled.  “Oh, Bryce, Bryce,” she murmured, “I think I’m beginning to understand some of your fury that day in the woods.  It’s all a great mystery, but I’m sure you didn’t intend to be so—­so terrible.  Oh, my dear, if we had only continued to be the good friends we started out to be, perhaps you’d let me help you now.  For what good is money if one cannot help one’s dear friends in distress.  Still, I know you wouldn’t let me help you, for men of your stamp cannot borrow from a woman, no matter how desperate their need.  And yet—­you only need a paltry fifty thousand dollars!”

Shirley carried to bed with her that night the woes of the Cardigans, and in the morning she telephoned Moira McTavish and invited the latter to lunch with her at home that noon.  It was in her mind to question Moira with a view to acquiring additional information.  When Moira came, Shirley saw that she had been weeping.

“My poor Moira!” she said, putting her arms around her visitor.  “What has happened to distress you?  Has your father come back to Sequoia?  Forgive me for asking.  You never mentioned him, but I have heard—­ There, there, dear!  Tell me all about it.”