Only he ought to have spoken out before. He ought to have told the
surveyor at once that he owned the land. He ought to have said: "Why,
that's my land. I bought it of that drunken 'Lige Curtis for a song and
out of charity." Yes, that was the only real trouble, and that came from
his own goodness, his own extravagant sense of justice and right,--his
own cursed good-nature. Yet, on second thoughts, he didn't know why he
was obliged to tell the surveyor. Time enough when the company wanted to
buy the land. As soon as it was settled that 'Lige was dead he'd openly
claim the property. But what if he wasn't dead? or they couldn't find
his body? or he had only disappeared? His plain, matter-of-fact face
contracted and darkened. Of course he couldn't ask the company to
wait for him to settle that point. He had the power to dispose of the
property under that paper, and--he should do it. If 'Lige turned up,
that was another matter, and he and 'Lige could arrange it between them.
He was quite firm here, and oddly enough quite relieved in getting rid
of what appeared only a simple question of detail. He never suspected
that he was contemplating the one irretrievable step, and summarily
dismissing the whole ethical question.

He turned away from the stove, opened the back door, and walked with a
more determined step through the passage to the sitting-room. But here
he halted again on the threshold with a quick return of his old habits
of caution. The door was slightly open; apparently his angry outbreak of
an hour ago had not affected the spirits of his daughters, for he could
hear their hilarious voices mingling with those of the strangers. They
were evidently still fortune-telling, but this time it was the prophetic
and divining accents of Mr. Rice addressed to Clementina which were now
plainly audible.