"They're in the stable," William Vibard answered
more obscurely than before. "With good
treatment they ought to last a life. They come
cheaper too like that."

Gordon relinquished all hope of extracting any
meaning from the other's elliptical speech. He rose.
"If 'they're' in the stable," he announced, "I'll soon
have some sense out of you." He procured a lantern,
and tramped shortly to the stable, closely followed
by Rose's husband.

"Now!" he exclaimed, loosening the hasp of the
door, throwing it open.

The former entered and bent over a heap in an
obscure corner. When he rose the lantern shone on
two orderly piles of glossy black paper boxes. Gordon
strode across the contracted space and wrenched
off a lid... Within reposed a brand new accordion.
There were nine others.

"You see," William eagerly interposed; "now I'm
fixed good."

At the sight of the grotesque waste a swift resentment
moved Gordon Makimmon -- it was a mockery
of his money's use, a gibing at his capability, his
planning. The petty treachery of Rose added its
injury. He pitched the box in his hands upon the
clay floor, and the accordion fell out, quivering like
a live thing.

"Hey!" William Vibard remonstrated; "don't do

[[317]]

p316 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p317w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p318

v?