when his agent informed him of what he had been doing.

"First-rate," replied the broker. "The farm is worth every cent of
three thousand dollars. Poor Gray! I can't help feeling sorry for
him. But it's his luck. He valued his farm at three thousand five
hundred dollars. A week ago he counted himself worth two thousand
dollars, clean. Now he isn't worth a copper. Fifteen hundred dollars
and three or four years' labour thrown away into the bargain. But
it's his luck! So the world goes. He must try again. It will all go
in his lifetime."

"Gray? Is that the man's name?" inquired Mr. Bolton. His voice was
changed.

"Yes. I thought I had mentioned his name."

"I didn't remark it, if you did. It's the farm adjoining Harvey's,
on the north?"

"Yes."

"I have had it in my mind, all along, that it was the one on the
south."

"No."

"When did you see Mr. Gray?"

"He was here about half an hour ago."