“I happen to know, Moira, that he isn’t going to buy it.”

“Yes, he is—­but not at a price that will do them any good.  They have always thought he would be eager to buy whenever they decided to sell, and now he says he doesn’t want it, and old Mr. Cardigan is ill over it all.  Mr. Bryce says his father has lost his courage at last; and oh, dear, things are in such a mess.  Mr. Bryce started to tell me all about it—­and then he stopped suddenly and wouldn’t say another word.”

Shirley smiled.  She thought she understood the reason for that.  However, she did not pause to speculate on it, since the crying need of the present was the distribution of a ray of sunshine to broken-hearted Moira.

“Silly,” she chided, “how needlessly you are grieving!  You say my uncle has declined to buy the Valley of the Giants?”

Moira nodded.

“My uncle doesn’t know what he’s talking about, Moira.  I’ll see that he does buy it.  What price are the Cardigans asking for it now?”

“Well, Colonel Pennington has offered them a hundred thousand dollars for it time and again, but last night he withdrew that offer.  Then they named a price of fifty thousand, and he said he didn’t want it at all.”

“He needs it, and it’s worth every cent of a hundred thousand to him, Moira.  Don’t worry, dear.  He’ll buy it, because I’ll make him, and he’ll buy it immediately; only you must promise me not to mention a single word of what I’m telling you to Bryce Cardigan, or in fact, to anybody.  Do you promise?”

Moira seized Shirley’s hand and kissed it impulsively.  “Very well, then,” Shirley continued.  “That matter is adjusted, and now we’ll all be happy.  Here comes Thelma with luncheon.  Cheer up, dear, and remember that sometime this afternoon you’re going to see Mr. Bryce smile again, and perhaps there won’t be so much of a cloud over his smile this time.”

When Moira returned to the office of the Cardigan Redwood Lumber Company, Shirley rang for her maid.  “Bring me my motor-coat and hat, Thelma,” she ordered, “and telephone for the limousine.”  She seated herself before the mirror at her dressing-table and dusted her adorable nose with a powder-puff.  “Mr. Smarty Cardigan,” she murmured happily, “you walked rough-shod over my pride, didn’t you!  Placed me under an obligation I could never hope to meet—­and then ignored me—­ didn’t you?  Very well, old boy.  We all have our innings sooner or later, you know, and I’m going to make a substantial payment on that huge obligation as sure as my name is Shirley Sumner.  Then, some day when the sun is shining for you again, you’ll come to me and be very, very humble.  You’re entirely too independent, Mr. Cardigan, but, oh, my dear, I do hope you will not need so much money.  I’ll be put to my wit’s end to get it to you without letting you know, because if your affairs go to smash, you’ll be perfectly intolerable.  And yet you deserve it.  You’re such an idiot for not loving Moira.  She’s an angel, and I gravely fear I’m just an interfering, mischievous, resentful little devil seeking vengeance on—­”