“That fox!” answered Jack, in a confirmatory tone; and then followed an account of the interview, the boy chuckling at the end of every sentence in his delight over the situation. “And what are YOU going to do?” asked Peter in an undecided tone. He had heard nothing so comical as this for years. “Going to do nothing,--that is, nothing with Uncle Arthur. In the first place, the property is worthless, unless half a million of money is spent upon it.” “Or is SAID to have been spent upon it,” rejoined Peter with a smile, remembering the Breen methods. “Exactly so;--and in the second place, I would rather tear up the deed than have it added to Uncle Arthur's stock of balloons.” Peter drummed on the table-cloth and looked out of the window. The boy was right in principle, but then the property might not be a balloon at all; might in fact be worth a great deal more than the boy dreamed of. That Arthur Breen had gone out of his way to send for Jack--knowing, as Peter did, how systematically both he and his wife had abused and ridiculed him whenever his name was mentioned--was positive evidence to Peter's mind not only that the property had a value of some kind but that the discovery was of recent origin. “Would you know yourself, Jack, what the property was worth,--that is, do you feel yourself competent to pass upon its value?” asked Peter, lifting his glass to his lips. He was getting back to his normal condition now. “Yes, to a certain extent, and if I fail, Mr. MacFarlane will help me out. He was superintendent of the Rockford Mines for five years. He received his early training there,--but there is no use talking about it, Uncle Peter. I only told you to let you see how the same old thing is going on day after day at Uncle Arthur's. If it isn't Mukton, it's Ginsing, or Black Royal, or some other gas bag.” “What did you tell him?” “Nothing,--not in all the hour I talked with him. He did the talking; I did the listening.” “I hope you were courteous to him, my boy?” “I was,--particularly so.” “He wants your property, does he?” ruminated Peter, rolling a crumb of bread between his thumb and forefinger. “I wonder what's up? He has made some bad breaks lately and there were ugly rumors about the house for a time. He has withdrawn his account from the Exeter and so I've lost sight of all of his transactions.” Here a new idea seemed to strike him: “Did he seem very anxious about getting hold of the land?” A queer smile played about Jack's lips: “He seemed NOT to be, but he was” “You're sure?” “Very sure; and so would you be if you knew him as well as I do. I have heard him talk that way to dozens of men and then brag how he'd 'covered his tracks,' as he used to call it.”