“I was going to ask you about that. I’ve about five thousand dollars cash and, without counting up, I guess about twenty thousand invested.” “A lot more than that,” said Dalton, “if my figuring is right.” “I intend,” continued Paul, “to pay all I can on this mortgage.” “Look at this, Paul,” said Dalton, flourishing a paper under his eyes. “What does this mean?” asked Paul, after he had read it, gazing blankly at his friend. “It means, boy, that from the sale of certain chattels, five thousand dollars was realised and deposited by Colonel Pelham to your credit some six years ago, which, with interest, amounts now to just about six thousand dollars.” Paul continued to gape at him. “Six thousand dollars! If I had only known! But,” he added quickly, “I’m glad I didn’t know. If I had there would have been no firm, Tussock, Gaspard and Dalton, and I should not have found two of the best friends a man ever had. We’ll turn this in too on the mortgage. We ought to be able to almost clean it up.” “Not if I know it!” cried Dalton. “This Sleeman is a robber. By Jove! I’ll make him cut down this thing to bare bones before I’m through with him. No fifteen thousand dollars of mortgage money for him—the old skinflint! He takes a mortgage for fifteen thousand, pays your father ten thousand, keeping five thousand back for interest. Ten per cent., prepaid! Oh, we’ll get him. Then, there’s a bundle of I O U’s which he holds, nearly two thousand dollars more, which I suspect have been already met, if your father’s red book is correct, and it has every mark of being a most exact record. I say, Paul! What about paying what you can on this mortgage and having the rest transferred to the company and getting the thing out of this robber’s hands?” “Could that be done, Dalton?” “Sure, it can be done. I’ll see Tussock about it.” CHAPTER XXV By the end of the fifth day the two young men were nearing the end of their ride through the Windermere Valley. They had made the trip in leisurely fashion, for the weather was superb and every hour was one of supreme delight; furthermore, their mounts, secured from a livery barn at Golden, were none of the best. As the sun was making toward the horizon the riders topped the crest of a long incline, from which the lofty tops of the fir trees of Pine Croft could be seen. “Hold up, Dalton,” cried Paul. “There among the firs is Pine Croft, and your eyes are resting upon the finest bit of mountain scenery in all British Columbia; my father, who had seen the best, used to say the finest in the world.” Dalton sat entranced. His vocabulary of wonder and admiration had long ago been exhausted. “I wish I had saved up a big adjective or two,” he said. “Your father must have been right, for anything finer is beyond my powers of imagination.”