This tall youth, with his clear-cut effeminate face, had a mouth that drooped a little weakly. He was speaking now with the assurance of one who had known all the facts on which he spoke for years, yet it was the fact that until that morning, when his sister had given him some insight into the character of the man she distrusted, he had known nothing of the circumstances attending his father’s death. All the time he spoke Lambaire was shaking his head slowly, in melancholy protest at the injustice. “No, no, no,” he said, when the other had finished, “you’re wrong, Mr. Sutton--I was ill at the time; I knew that you were all well off----” “Ahem!” coughed Whitey, and Lambaire realized that he had made a mistake. “So far from being well off--however, that is unimportant; it was only last year that, by the death of an uncle, we inherited--but rich or poor, that is beside the question.” “It is indeed,” said Lambaire heartily. He was anxious to get away from ground that was palpably dangerous. “I want to finish what I had to say. Your sister refused us the chart; well and good, we do not quarrel with her, we do not wish to take the matter to law; we say ‘very good--we will leave the matter,’ although”--he wagged his finger at the boy solemnly--“although it is a very serious matter for me, having floated----” “Owing to your wishing to float,” said Whitey softly. “I should say wishing to float a company on the strength of the chart; still, I say, ‘if the young lady feels that way, I’m sorry--I won’t bother her’; then an idea struck me!” He paused dramatically. “An idea struck me--the mine which your father went to seek is still undiscovered; even with your chart, to which, by the way, I do not attach a great deal of importance----” “It is practically of no value except to the owner,” interrupted Whitey. “No value whatever,” agreed Lambaire; “even with the chart, any man who started out to hunt for my mine would miss it--what is required is--is----” “The exploring spirit,” Whitey put in. “The exploring spirit, born and bred in the bones of the man who goes out to find it. Mr. Sutton,” Lambaire rose awkwardly, for he was heavily built, “when I said I sought you from ulterior motives, I spoke the truth. I was trying to discover whether you were the man to carry on your father’s work--Mr. Sutton, you are!” He said this impressively, dramatically, and the boy flushed with pleasure. He would have been less than human if the prospect of such an expedition as Lambaire’s words suggested did not appeal to him. Physically and mentally he bore no resemblance to Sutton the explorer, the man of many expeditions, but there was something of his father’s intense curiosity in his composition, a curiosity which lies at the root of all enterprise.