"Ah, but that's not all, even yet!" he said. "This curious will has dragged its slow length over three years--and now we haven't finished with it, quite. Here's a codicil still to be read--its last word, written later, just two days before Mr. Graham's death, so it seems." Alack and alas! that was the moment of the second wreck; the moment for one jubilant girl of the dire breakdown, when the Victory Express to Clover Land, goal of blossoming success, crashed through into zero waters of blankest disappointment,--almost as bitter as those in which she had held up her friend. For the last word of the strung-out will set forth that, whereas it seemed borne in upon Mr. Hartley Graham, with life drawing to a close, that he had not been quite fair to his madcap brother in youth, and that the latter would some day return, the disposal of his wealth in the other direction named--to the University and for invention--should not come into effect for at least twelve years after the opening of that third drawer. "And so--and so, it's all hung up for another dozen years--unless Treffrey Graham comes back to claim the money! Well! I'm sorry, Professor Lorry; there's many a slip 'twixt cup and lip," said the lawyer, laying down the codicil with a blue look; he was interested in invention, progressive invention--he had never thought that the Thunder Bird was a Quaker gun. "And so it's all hung up for the next twelve years," was the baffled cry which went around the circle, with no single note of longing for the wanderer's return. It would not have been very flattering to the terrible Treff, if he was alive and present to hear, thought a gnashing Pemrose: to the exile who had been such a hazing firebrand at college, burning out the fine flame of youth in the straw blaze of senseless pranks,--a griffin and shatterpated jester. CHAPTER V SHE SAVED A CITY "And so--and so it's all hung up for another twelve years--the Thunder Bird's flight! For I don't suppose there's much chance of the money coming from another direction." Pemrose Lorry echoed the cry, repeated it desolately, hours later, standing in her own room--a room that was a sort of sequel to herself, as every Camp Fire Girl's nest should be. Her father had echoed it, as she sat very close to him, driving home in the Grosvenor's limousine. "Well! so far this strung-out will has been for us much cry and little wool, eh, girlie," he muttered; and for the first time she heard discouragement in his voice; perhaps he had "banked" upon that third nut more than he admitted.