They were both silent. Plainly she had dismissed all idea of her brother's guilt.
“But what are we going to do, Elizabeth? And how has he taken it?”
“Like poison, Vance. He—he burned all the Colby pictures. Oh, Vance, twenty-four years of work are thrown away!”
“Nonsense! This will all straighten out. I'm glad he's found out. Sooner or later he was pretty sure to. Such things will come to light.”
“Vance, you'll help me? You'll forgive me for accusing you, and you'll help me to keep Terry in hand for the next few days? You see, he declared that he will not be ashamed of his father.”
“You can't blame him for that.”
“God knows I blame no one but myself.”
“I'll help you with every ounce of strength in my mind and body, my dear.”
She pressed his hand in silence.
“I'm going up to talk with him now,” he said. “I'm going to do what I can with him. You go in and talk. And don't let them see that anything is wrong.”
The door had not been locked again. He entered at the call of Terry and found him leaning over the hearth stirring up the pile of charred paper to make it burn more freely. A shadow crossed the face of Terry as he saw his visitor, but he banished it at once and rose to greet him. In his heart Vance was a little moved. He went straight to the younger man and took his hand.
“Elizabeth has told me,” he said gently, and he looked with a moist eye into the face of the man who, if his plans worked out, would be either murderer or murdered before the close of the next day. “I am very sorry, Terence.”
“I thought you came to congratulate me,” said Terry, withdrawing his hand.
“Congratulate you?” echoed Vance, with unaffected astonishment.
“For having learned the truth,” said Terry. “Also, for having a father who was a strong man.”
Vance could not resist the opening.
“In a way, I suppose he was,” he said dryly. “And if you look at it in that way, I do congratulate you, Terence!”
“You've always hated me, Uncle Vance,” Terry declared. “I've known it all these years. And I'll do without your congratulations.”
“You're wrong, Terry,” said Vance. He kept his voice mild. “You're very wrong. But I'm old enough not to take offense at what a young spitfire says.”
“I suppose you are,” retorted Terry, in a tone which implied that he himself would never reach that age.
“And when a few years run by,” went on Vance, “you'll change your viewpoint. In the meantime, my boy, let me give you this warning. No matter what you think about me, it is Elizabeth who counts.”
“Thanks. You need have no fear about my attitude to Aunt Elizabeth. You ought to know that I love her, and respect her.”
“Exactly. But you're headstrong, Terry. Very headstrong. And so is Elizabeth. Take your own case. She took you into the family for the sake of a theory. Did you know that?”
The boy stiffened. “A theory?”
“Quite so. She wished to prove that blood, after all, was more talk than a vital influence. So she took you in and gave you an imaginary line of ancestors with which you were entirely contented. But, after all, it has been twenty-four years of theory rather than twenty-four years of Terry. You understand?”
“It's a rather nasty thing to hear,” said Terence huskily. “Perhaps you're right. I don't know. Perhaps you're right.”
“And if her theory is proved wrong—look out, Terry! She'll throw you out of her life without a second thought.”
“Is that a threat?”
“My dear boy, not by any means. You think I have hated you? Not at all. I have simply been indifferent. Now that you are in more or less trouble, you see that I come to you. And hereafter if there should be a crisis, you will see who is your true friend. Now, good night!”
He had saved his most gracious speech until the very end, and after it he retired at once to leave Terence with the pleasant memory in his mind. For he had in his mind the idea of a perfect crime for which he would not be punished. He would turn Terry into a corpse or a killer, and in either case the youngster would never dream who had dealt the blow.
No wonder, then, as he went downstairs, that he stepped onto the veranda for a few moments. The moon was just up beyond Mount Discovery; the valley unfolded like a dream. Never had the estate seemed so charming to Vance Cornish, for he felt that his hand was closing slowly around his inheritance.
CHAPTER 10
The sleep of the night seemed to blot out the excitement of the preceding evening. A bright sun, a cool stir of air, brought in the next morning, and certainly calamity had never seemed farther from the Cornish ranch than it did on this day. All through the morning people kept arriving in ones and twos. Every buckboard on the place was commissioned to haul the guests around the smooth roads and show them the estate; and those who preferred were furnished with saddle horses from the stable to keep their own mounts fresh for their return trip. Vance took charge of the wagon parties; Terence himself guided the horsemen, and he rode El Sangre, a flashing streak of blood red.
