were due to arrive in half an hour, and while Senator
Barnes awaited their coming Barbara came to him. In her eyes was a light
that helped to tell the great news. It gave him a sharp, jealous pang.
He wanted at once to play a part in her happiness, to make her grateful
to him, not alone to this stranger who was taking her away. So fearful
was he that she would shut him out of her life that had she asked for
half his kingdom he would have parted with it.

"And besides giving my consent," said the rubber king, "for which no one
seems to have asked, what can I give my little girl to make her remember
her old father? Some diamonds to put on her head, or pearls to hang
around her neck, or does she want a vacant lot on Fifth Avenue?"

The lovely hands of Barbara rested upon his shoulders; her lovely face
was raised to his; her lovely eyes were appealing, and a little
frightened.

"What would one of those things cost?" asked Barbara.

The question was eminently practical. It came within the scope of the
senator's understanding. After all, he was not to be cast into outer
darkness. His smile was complacent. He answered airily:

"Anything you like," he said; "a million dollars?"

The fingers closed upon his shoulders. The eyes, still frightened, still
searched his in appeal.

"Then for my wedding-present," said the girl, "I want you to take that
million dollars and send an expedition to the Amazon. And I will choose
the men. Men unafraid; men not afraid of fever or sudden death; not
afraid to tell the truth--even to _you_. And all the world will know.
And they--I mean _you_--will set those people free!"

Senator Barnes received the directors with an embarrassment which he
concealed under a manner of just indignation.

"My mind is made up," he told them. "Existing conditions cannot
continue. And to that end, at my own expense, I am sending an expedition
across South America. It will investigate, punish, and establish
reforms. I suggest, on account of this damned heat, we do now adjourn."

That night, over on Long Island, Carroll told his wife all, or nearly
all. He did not tell her about the automatic pistol. And together on
tiptoe they crept to the nursery and looked down at their sleeping
children. When she rose from her knees the mother said, "But how can I
thank him?"

By "him" she meant the Young Man of Wall Street.

"You never can thank him," said Carroll; "that's the worst of it."

But after a long silence t