There was a certain grimness in Wyllard's laugh. "Martial was a little muleish, and I'm afraid I'm troubled with a shortness of temper now and then. We had a difference of opinion as to the best way to drive the mower into the sloo, and he didn't seem to recognise that he should have deferred to me. Unfortunately, as the boys were standing by, I had to insist upon him getting out of the saddle."

He had turned a little further towards her, and Agatha noticed that there was a bruise upon one side of his face. After what he had just told her the sight of it jarred upon her, though she would not admit that there was any reason why it should do so. She could not deny that on the prairie a resort to physical force might be warranted by the lack of any other remedy, but it hurt her to think of him descending to an open brawl with one of his men.

Then it occurred to her that the other man had in all probability suffered more, and this brought her a certain sense of satisfaction which she admitted was more or less barbarous. She had made it clear that Wyllard was nothing to her, but she could not help watching him as he lay among the hay. His wide hat set off his bronzed face, which, though not exactly handsome, was pleasant and rea.s.suring--she felt that was the best word--to look at. The dusty shirt and old blue trousers, as she had already noticed, accentuated the long, clean lines of his figure, and she realised with a faint sense of anger that his mere physical perfection, his strength and suppleness, appealed to her.

This was, she recognised, an almost repugnant thing, a feeling to be judiciously checked, but it would obtrude itself. After all, in spite of her fastidiousness, she was endued with most of the characteristics of flesh and blood.

"You must have a good deal to look after alone," she said.

"Oh yes," said Wyllard; "I'm making my biggest effort this year. We've sown at least a third more than I've ever done before, and I've bought a big bunch of horses, too. If all goes satisfactorily we should reap a record harvest, but in the meanwhile the thing's rather a pull. One can't let up a minute; there's always something to be done, and a constant need for supervision."

"Suppose you neglected the latter?"

Wyllard smiled. "Then I'm 'most afraid there'd be the biggest kind of smash."

After that they talked of other matters of no great consequence, for both of them were conscious of the necessity for a certain reticence; and when they reached the homestead Agatha joined Mrs. Hastings, while Wyllard pitched the hay off the waggon. He, however, came in to supper presently with about half of the others, and they all sat down together in the long, barely furnished room. Wyllard seemed unusually animated, and drew Mrs. Hastings into a bout of whimsical badinage, but he looked up sharply when, by and bye, a beat of hoofs rose from the prairie.

"Somebody's riding in; I wonder what he wants?" he said. "I certainly don't expect anybody."

The drumming of hoofs rang more sharply through the open windows, for the sod was hard and dry. Then it broke off, and Agatha saw Wyllard start as a man came into the room. He was a little, thick-set man with a weather-darkened face, dressed in rather old blue serge, and he looked and walked like a seaman. In another moment or two he stood still, looking about him, and Wyllard's lips set tight. A little thrill of disconcertion ran through Agatha, for she felt she knew what this stranger's errand must be.

Then Wyllard rose, and walked towards the man with outstretched hand.

"Sit right down and get some supper. You'll want it if you have ridden in from the railroad," he said. "We'll talk afterwards."

The stranger nodded. "I'm from Vancouver," he said; "had quite a lot of trouble tracing you."

He sat down, and Wyllard, who sent a man out to take his horse, went back to his seat, but he was rather silent during the rest of the meal.

When it was over he asked Mrs. Hastings to excuse him, and leading the stranger into a smaller room pulled out two chairs and laid a cigar box on the table.

"Now you can get ahead," he said.

The seaman fumbled in his pocket, and taking out a slip of wood handed it to his companion.

"That's what I came to bring you," he said quietly.

Wyllard's eyes grew very grave as he gazed at the thing. It was a slip of willow which will grow close up to the limits of the eternal ice, and it bore a rude representation of the British ensign union down, which signifies "In distress." Besides this there were one or two indecipherable words scratched on it, and three common names rather more clearly cut. Wyllard recognised every one of them.

"How did you get it?" he asked, in tense suspense.

The sailorman once more felt in his pocket and took out a piece of paper cut from a chart. He flattened it out on the table, and it showed, as Wyllard had expected, a strip of the Kamtchatkan coast.

"I guess I needn't tell you where that is," he said, and pointed to the parallel of lat.i.tude that ran across it. "Dunton gave it me. He was up there late last season well over on the western side. A north-easterly gale fell on them, and took most of the foremast out of her. I understand they tried to lash on a boom or something as a jury mast, but it hadn't height enough to set much forward canvas, and that being the case she wouldn't bear more than a three-reefed mainsail.

Anyway, they couldn't do anything with her on the wind, and as it kept heading them from the east she sidled away down south through the Kuriles into the Yellow Sea. They got ice-bound somewhere, which explains why Dunton only fetched Vancouver a week ago."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'I guess I needn't tell you where that is,' he said, and pointed to the parallel of lat.i.tude that ran across."]

"But the message?"

"When they were in the thick of their troubles they hove her to not far off the beach with ice about, and a Husky came down on them in some kind of boat."

"A Husky?" said Wyllard, who knew he meant an Esquimaux.

"That's what Dunton called him, but I guess he must have been a Kamtchadale or a Koriak. Anyway, he brought this strip of willow, and he had Tom Lewson's watch. Dunton traded him something for it. They couldn't make much of what he said except that he'd got the message from three white men somewhere along the beach. They couldn't make out how long ago."

"Dunton tried for them?"

"How could he? She'd hardly look at the wind, and the ice was piling up on the coast close to lee of him. He hung on a week or two with the floes driving in all the while, and then it freshened hard and blew him out."

He had told his story, and Wyllard, who rose, stood leaning on his chair-back very grim in face.

"That," he said, "must have been eight or nine months ago."

"It was. They've been up there since the night we couldn't pick up the boat."

"It's unthinkable," said Wyllard. "The thing can't be true."

His companion gravely produced a little common metal watch made in Connecticut, and worth some five or six dollars. Opening it he pointed to a name scratched inside it.

"You can't get over that," he said simply.

Wyllard strode up and down the room, and when he sat down again with a clenched hand laid upon the table he and the sailorman looked at each other steadily for a moment or two. Then the stranger made a little gesture.

"You sent them," he said, "what are you going to do?"

"I'm going for them."

The sailorman smiled. "I knew it would be that. You'll have to start right away if it's to be done this year. I've my eye upon a schooner."

He lighted a cigar, and settled himself more comfortably in his chair.

"Well," he said, "I'm coming with you, but you'll have to buy my ticket to Vancouver. It cleaned me out to get here. We'd a difficulty with a blame gunboat last season, and the boss went back on me. Sealing's not what it used to be. Anyway, we can fix the thing up later. I won't keep you from your friends."

Wyllard went out and left him, and though he did not see Mrs. Hastings just then he came upon Agatha sitting outside the house. She glanced at his face when he sat down beside her.

"Ah," she said, "you have had the summons."

Wyllard nodded. "Yes," he said, "that man was the skipper of a schooner I once sailed in. He has come to tell me where those three men are."

Then he told her quietly what he had heard, and the girl was conscious of a very curious thrill.

"You are going up there to search for them?" she said. "Won't it cost you a great deal?"

She saw his face harden as he gazed at the tall wheat, but his expression was very resolute.

"Yes," he admitted, "that's a sure thing. Most of my dollars are locked up in this crop, and there's need of constant watchfulness and effort until the last bushel's hauled in to the elevators. It probably sounds egotistical, but now I've got rid of Martial I can't put my hand on any one as fit to see the thing through as I am. Still, I have to go for them. What else could I do?"

"Wouldn't the Provincial Government of British Columbia, or your authorities at Ottawa take the matter up?"

Wyllard's smile was somewhat grim. "It wouldn't be wise to give them an opportunity. For one thing, they've had enough of sealing cases, and that isn't astonishing. We'll say they applied for the persons of three British subjects who are supposed to be living somewhere in Russian Asia--and for that matter I couldn't be sure that two of them aren't Americans--the Russians naturally enquire what the men were doing there. The answer is that they were poaching the Russians'

seals. Then the affair on the beach comes up, and there's a big claim for compensation and trouble all round. It seems to me the last thing those men--they're practically outlaws--would desire would be to have a Russian expedition sent up on their trail. They would want to lie hidden until they could somehow get off again."