fear, doubt, and half-willingness, but he said nothing, simply staring
at Bradley as a subject might under the spell of a hypnotist.

"Yes, he'll take it," Bradley repeated. "Get your hat, Dick, and leave
the gentleman in possession--the agreement sweeps everything, doesn't
it?"

"Yes, lock, stock, and barrel." The gambler was trying to conquer the
look of elation which had captured his features.

"All right," Wrinkle gave in, doggedly, and he reached for the money and
counted it. When he had finished he took his hat down from a nail on the
wall and extended his hand. "Luck to you, Parson," he said. "I reckon
I'll shake the dust of this place off my feet. I've got work to do at
home."

CHAPTER XXXIX

Dick Wrinkle, travel-stained and covered with dust, a small valise in
his hand, trudged down the declivitous footpath of the mountain amid the
splendor of late summer leafage and occasional dashes of rhododendron
and other wild flowers, the color and scent of which greeted his senses,
dulled as they were to the finer things of life, as a subtle something
belonging to the past which had been lost and was regained. Now and then
he would stop, rest his bag on the ground, and breathe in the crisp air
as if it were a palpable substance that was pleasing to his palate. At
such moments, when the open spaces between hanging boughs, tangled
vines, and trunks of trees would permit, his glance, half doubtful, half
confident, would rest on the palatial residence in the valley below,
which, at every step, had been growing nearer and nearer.

"Yes, that's the place," he said once, in a certain tone of exultation.
"It must be; I've followed the directions to the letter, and there
couldn't be two such dandy houses as that round here. And it is hers, in
her own right, to boss over and to keep or to sell or to do as we please
with."

When he had reached the level ground he found himself in a broad,
well-graded road that led straight to the gates of the mansion, and when
he was quite near to it he observed on the right-hand side an extensive
peach-orchard. It was the gathering season, and in a shed open at the
sides, and containing long, canvas-covered tables, several negro men and
women were busy packing the ripe peaches into new crates which were
being nailed up by a white man in overalls and a conical straw-hat. The
pedestrian leaned against the whitewashed board-fence and scanned the
group, seeking a familiar face. But tho