“Nor I, and I’ve looked over all his father’s things which he is continually trying. Listen! Sounds like a Chopin Nocturne. But, no! That’s not Chopin. He must be improvising. He told me one day he was playing all the things out of doors, a kind of Nature Symphony, the Pine Croft out of doors, as it were—the stream tumbling down beside the bungalow, the pines and the poplars and the flowers and the clouds. He told me he was playing the great yellow splashes of sunlight on the valley. He kept me an hour that day, fascinated, playing the different colours in the landscape—blue of the sky, light, sweet, smooth-flowing, a Handel sort of thing; reds and yellows were set forth in dashing, smashing chords and runs, a Liszt or Tschaikowsky effect; then, for sunset gold and saffron he used a kind of Mozart thing, rich, full, sweet. It was quite marvellous. He is queer, undoubtedly queer. Why! Do you know he had the audacity to even play ‘God’ to me that day. He was like an inspired thing. Played ‘God smiling at him from the clouds.’ He protests he sees God, you know, and hears Him. Oh, he’s quite spooky!” “Spooky? Nonsense! That’s not the word. There are artistic and mystic strains in him, that’s all. But all the same, I wonder when his father is coming back, or if he is coming back at all. That Pine Croft Ranch is going bad. I simply can’t keep it on.” “Of course you can’t. You were mad to take it on at first.” “My dear Augusta, what could I do? The man was distracted, broken. I was actually afraid for his brain. I really was. You remember those days. Well—then came his request and the formal will—by Jove! Now I think of it, it was you who offered to take the boy.” “The boy? Yes, I did. But the ranch was a different thing. And that Sleeman sniffing round, I simply can’t bear him.” “Sleeman? I don’t much care for him myself. He may be honest enough, but he’s sharp. Says he holds I O U’s for loans and such like from Gaspard. True enough, Gaspard was hard up. You know the Bank had closed down on him. He could get no more extensions. Frankly, I am worried. The stock is running wild, as you say.” “Edgar, I forbid you to worry. It’s not worth it. We’ll look after the boy. The bungalow is closed up, everything all right there; old Tom looks after it. The ranch and stock must simply take care of themselves.” At this point a louder crash than usual on the piano arrested their attention. A wild whoop followed, and Paul stood in the doorway. “Oh, Uncle Colonel, where are they? Did you see them go?” he burst forth. “Come, Paul,” said the Colonel’s lady severely. “It’s not customary to rush in upon people like that.” The boy flushed to his hair roots. “I’m sorry, Aunt Augusta. Awfully sorry, Uncle Colonel. But did you see them go, sir?” “Yes, they went up toward Pine Croft Ranch. But you ought to be able to track them easily, for the rain has softened the trail.” “Oh, splendid! I’ll do it. I’ll just get Joseph and find them.”