“You’ve always hated me, Uncle Vance,”
Terry declared. “I’ve known it all
these years. And I’ll do without your congratulations.”
“You’re wrong, Terry,” said Vance.
He kept his voice mild. “You’re very
wrong. But I’m old enough not to take offense
at what a young spitfire says.”
“I suppose you are,” retorted Terry, in
a tone which implied that he himself would never reach
that age.
“And when a few years run by,” went on
Vance, “you’ll change your viewpoint.
In the meantime, my boy, let me give you this warning.
No matter what you think about me, it is Elizabeth
who counts.”
“Thanks. You need have no fear about my
attitude to Aunt Elizabeth. You ought to know
that I love her, and respect her.”
“Exactly. But you’re headstrong,
Terry. Very headstrong. And so is Elizabeth.
Take your own case. She took you into the family
for the sake of a theory. Did you know that?”
The boy stiffened. “A theory?”
“Quite so. She wished to prove that blood,
after all, was more talk than a vital influence.
So she took you in and gave you an imaginary line of
ancestors with which you were entirely contented.
But, after all, it has been twenty-four years of theory
rather than twenty-four years of Terry. You understand?”
“It’s a rather nasty thing to hear,”
said Terence huskily. “Perhaps you’re
right. I don’t know. Perhaps you’re
right.”
“And if her theory is proved wrong—look
out, Terry! She’ll throw you out of her
life without a second thought.”
“Is that a threat?”
“My dear boy, not by any means. You think
I have hated you? Not at all. I have simply
been indifferent. Now that you are in more or
less trouble, you see that I come to you. And
hereafter if there should be a crisis, you will see
who is your true friend. Now, good night!”
He had saved his most gracious speech until the very
end, and after it he retired at once to leave Terence
with the pleasant memory in his mind. For he
had in his mind the idea of a perfect crime for which
he would not be punished. He would turn Terry
into a corpse or a killer, and in either case the
youngster would never dream who had dealt the blow.
No wonder, then, as he went downstairs, that he stepped
onto the veranda for a few moments. The moon
was just up beyond Mount Discovery; the valley unfolded
like a dream. Never had the estate seemed so charming
to Vance Cornish, for he felt that his hand was closing
slowly around his inheritance.
The sleep of the night seemed to blot out the excitement
of the preceding evening. A bright sun, a cool
stir of air, brought in the next morning, and certainly
calamity had never seemed farther from the Cornish
ranch than it did on this day. All through the
morning people kept arriving in ones and twos.
Every buckboard on the place was commissioned to haul
the guests around the smooth roads and show them the
estate; and those who preferred were furnished with
saddle horses from the stable to keep their own mounts
fresh for their return trip. Vance took charge
of the wagon parties; Terence himself guided the horsemen,
and he rode El Sangre, a flashing streak of blood
red.
