By The Turtles of Tasman

MP3 Audio CD. By The Turtles of Tasman

I

Law, order, and restraint had carved Frederick Travers' face. It was the
strong, firm face of one used to power and who had used power with
wisdom and discretion. Clean living had made the healthy skin, and the
lines graved in it were honest lines. Hard and devoted work had left its
wholesome handiwork, that was all. Every feature of the man told the
same story, from the clear blue of the eyes to the full head of hair,
light brown, touched with grey, and smoothly parted and drawn straight
across above the strong-domed forehead. He was a seriously groomed man,
and the light summer business suit no more than befitted his alert
years, while it did not shout aloud that its possessor was likewise the
possessor of numerous millions of dollars and property.

For Frederick Travers hated ostentation. The machine that waited outside
for him under the porte-cochère was sober black. It was the most
expensive machine in the county, yet he did not care to flaunt its price
or horse-power in a red flare across the landscape, which also was
mostly his, from the sand dunes and the everlasting beat of the Pacific
breakers, across the fat bottomlands and upland pastures, to the far
summits clad with redwood forest and wreathed in fog and cloud.

A rustle of skirts caused him to look over his shoulder. Just the
faintest hint of irritation showed in his manner. Not that his daughter
was the object, however. Whatever it was, it seemed to lie on the desk
before him.

"What is that outlandish name again?" she asked. "I know I shall never
remember it. See, I've brought a pad to write it down."

Her voice was low and cool, and she was a tall, well-formed,
clear-skinned young woman. In her voice and complacence she, too,
showed the d