"It's all right, Lucia," Gilbert said, and she went upstairs, almost
weeping. Then he whirled about and glared at his uncle. "It's a good
thing--no, I don't know what I'm saying. You're an invalid, or I'd strike
you, despite your years, Uncle Henry. For heaven's sake, can't you learn to
mind your own business?"
"I ain't got any. You robbed me of it!" the old man flamed back. "Now I'll
mind yours for a change. Make a monkey out o' me, will you, gol darn you!"
As he was starting for the door, he bumped directly into Jasper Hardy and
his daughter Angela and the ubiquitous "Red." The trio had come over in the
Ford.
Hardy, tall and thin, wore a funereal black coat, despite the heat, and a
somber dark Stetson hat. He must have been fifty or more. His skin looked
bloodless, and his eyes still had that hard, pale look. It was difficult to
trust eyes like those. He ambled, rather than walked, and his lean, lanky
legs would have made him a fortune on the stage. It was difficult to
believe, as everyone always said, that the lovely little Angela, with her
bright black eyes and her rose-red cheeks, was the daughter of this
sinister man. She was as attractive as a rose;--a typical frontier maiden,
romantic, emotional, peppery when occasion demanded--just the kind to take
the fancy of an honest soul like "Red.
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