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Updated: June 9, 2025
Holy Saint Bridget bless ye!" And the vagabond gloves clasped the slender hands of the American prototype and gave them a hard little squeeze. "Who's himself?" "It's Billy Burgeman, son of the Burgeman." "Old King Midas?" "That's a new name for him." "It has fitted him years enough." Patsy's face sobered. "Oh, why does money always have to mate with money?
Burgeman said nothing; but the ghost of a feeling showed, the greed of possession. "And it all belongs to you. You bought it all the lake and the woods and the lawns." It was not a question, but a statement. "I own three miles in every direction." "Except that one." Patsy smiled as she pointed a finger upward.
In reality it was the names of all the places in France that Patsy could recall with rapidity. When the kitchen was empty once more Patsy systematically gathered together all that she knew and all that she had heard of Billy Burgeman, and weighed it against the bare possible chance she might have of helping him should she continue her quest. And in the end she made her decision unwaveringly.
Gregory Jessup's face lost its puzzled frown and became suddenly illumined with an inspiration. "I know! By Hec! I've got it! There's that path that runs down from the Burgeman estate to our old cottage. It was a short cut for us kids, and we were almost the only ones to use it.
And there he was sitting, his eyes on nothing at all, when Patsy scrambled up the bank of the lake and dropped breathless under a tree not three feet from him. "Merciful Saint Patrick! I never saw you! Maybe I'm trespassing, now?" "You are," agreed Burgeman senior in a colorless voice. "But I hardly think any one will put you off the grounds at least until you have caught your breath."
I'd like to be following the road for days and days, and keeping the length of it between Billy Burgeman and myself." Starting before the country was astir, she had met no one of whom she could inquire the way.
Patsy's ears fairly bristled with interest. "That's news, if it is gossip. Where is the secretary now? And which of them has the ten thousand?" The director had touched on the subject of the check the next day when business had demanded his presence at the Burgeman home. The result had been distinctly baffling.
"You forget" Burgeman senior spoke with difficulty "it is the rich who bear the burdens of the world's cares and troubles, and what do they get for it? The hatred of every one else, even their sons! Every one hates and envies the man richer and more powerful than himself; the more he has the more he is feared. He lives friendless; he dies lonely."
Not that the director could put his finger on any one suspicious point in the behavior of Burgeman, senior; but it left him with the distinct impression that the father was shielding the son. "Aye, that's what Billy said his father would do shield him out of pride." Patsy dusted the flour from her arms and stood motionless, thinking.
Marjorie Schuyler laughed. "You! That is too beautifully delicious! Why, Patsy O'Connell, William Burgeman is the most conventional young gentleman I have ever met in my life. You would shock him into a semi-comatose condition in an afternoon and, pray, what would you do with him?" "Sure, I'd make a man of him, that's what. His father's son might need it, I'm thinking."
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