“But, of course,” he added, “it will be many months before our agents can report.  On the Amazon news travels very slowly.”

In the eyes of his daughter the doubt still lingered.

“I am afraid,” she said, “that that is true.”

That was six months before the directors of the Brazil and Cuyaba Rubber Company were summoned to meet their president at his rooms in the Ritz-Carlton.  They were due to arrive in half an hour, and while Senator Barnes awaited their coming Barbara came to him.  In her eyes was a light that helped to tell the great news.  It gave him a sharp, jealous pang.  He wanted at once to play a part in her happiness, to make her grateful to him, not alone to this stranger who was taking her away.  So fearful was he that she would shut him out of her life that had she asked for half his kingdom he would have parted with it.

“And besides giving my consent,” said the rubber king, “for which no one seems to have asked, what can I give my little girl to make her remember her old father?  Some diamonds to put on her head, or pearls to hang around her neck, or does she want a vacant lot on Fifth Avenue?”

The lovely hands of Barbara rested upon his shoulders; her lovely face was raised to his; her lovely eyes were appealing, and a little frightened.

“What would one of those things cost?” asked Barbara.

The question was eminently practical.  It came within the scope of the senator’s understanding.  After all, he was not to be cast into outer darkness.  His smile was complacent.  He answered airily: 

“Anything you like,” he said; “a million dollars?”

The fingers closed upon his shoulders.  The eyes, still frightened, still searched his in appeal.

“Then, for my wedding-present,” said the girl, “I want you to take that million dollars and send an expedition to the Amazon.  And I will choose the men.  Men unafraid; men not afraid of fever or sudden death; not afraid to tell the truth—­even to you.  And all the world will know.  And they—­I mean you—­will set those people free!”

Senator Barnes received the directors with an embarrassment which he concealed under a manner of just indignation.

“My mind is made up,” he told them.  “Existing conditions cannot continue.  And to that end, at my own expense, I am sending an expedition across South America.  It will investigate, punish, and establish reforms.  I suggest, on account of this damned heat, we do now adjourn.”

That night, over on Long Island, Carroll told his wife all, or nearly all.  He did not tell her about the automatic pistol.  And together on tiptoe they crept to the nursery and looked down at their sleeping children.  When she rose from her knees the mother said:  “But how can I thank him?”

By “him” she meant the Young Man of Wall Street.

“You never can thank him,” said Carroll; “that’s the worst of it.”