"Hm-m-m! I see. Well, suppose Nan takes a notion to return to Port Agnew, Mr. Daney. She'll find our drying-yard something of a nuisance, will she not?"

"Oh, but she's not coming back," Daney a.s.sured him, with all the confidence of one free from the slightest doubt on the subject.

"She might. I could see rather dimly into the kitchen and it appears Miss Brent left her little home furnished."

"Yes, she did, Donald. I believe she just turned the key in the lock and went away."

"Know where she went, Mr. Daney?"

"No. She didn't even leave a forwarding address for her mail."

The young laird of Tyee lurched up to Mr. Daney and laid a heavy hand on the older man's shoulder.

"How do you know that?" he demanded, and there was a growl in his voice. "Has Mrs. Daney been asking the postmaster?"

Mr. Daney saw that, for some inexplicable reason, he was in for a bad five minutes or more. His youthful superior's face was white and beaded with perspiration. Daney had a suspicion that Donald had had a drink or two.

"There has been no gossip, Donald," he answered crisply. "Get that notion out of your head. I would protect you from gossip, for I think I know my duty to the McKayes. I learned that lesson a long time ago,"

he added, with spirit.

"You haven't answered my question, Mr. Daney," Donald persisted.

"I shall. I know, because she told me herself." Mr. Daney had not intended that Donald should ever discover that he had had an interview with Nan Brent, but his veracity had, for the moment, appeared to him to be questioned by his superior, and he was too truthful, too thoroughly honest to attempt now to protect his reputation for truth-telling by uttering a small fib, albeit he squirmed inwardly at the terrible necessity for such integrity.

"Ah! Then Nan called upon you again?"

Mr. Daney sighed.

"No, I called upon her."

"With reference to what?"

"To settle with her for the loss of the Brutus."

"When did you lose the Brutus."

Mr. Daney pulled at his ear, gazed at the porch light, rubbed his Adam's apple, and gave the exact date.

"What happened to the Brutus?"

"She just disappeared, Donald. She was tied up alongside the barge--"

The heavy hand on Mr. Daney's shoulder tightened a little. Donald was merely holding fast to the general manager in order to stay on his feet, but Mr. Daney credited him with being the victim of rising anger.

"When did Nan leave Port Agnew, Mr. Daney?"

"Let me see, Donald." Mr. Daney tugged at his beard. "Why, she left two weeks ago yesterday. Yes; she left on the nineteenth."

"When did you settle with her for the loss of the Brutus?"

"On the sixteenth," Daney answered glibly.

"How much?"

"Twenty-five hundred dollars. It was more than the Brutus was worth, but I disliked to appear n.i.g.g.ardly in the matter, Donald. I knew you and your father would approve whatever sum I settled for--and the loss of the little boat provided a nice opportunity for generosity without hurting the girl's pride."

"Yes--thank you, Mr. Daney. That was kind and thoughtful of you."

Donald spoke the words slowly, as if he searched his brain carefully for each word and then had to coax his tongue into speaking it. "You settled, then, two days after the boat disappeared. Fast work. n.o.body up here would steal the boat. Too much distance between ports--run short of gasoline, you know, on her limited tank capacity--and if anybody had purchased cased gasoline around here to load on deck, you'd know of it. Hard to conceal or disguise a forty-foot boat, too."

His fingers closed like steel nippers over Mr. Daney's shoulder.

"Where did you hide the boat, Mr. Daney? Answer me. I'll not be trifled with."

"I scuttled her--if you must have the truth."

"I knew you wouldn't lie to me. On whose orders, Mr. Daney? My father's?"

"No, sir; it was my own idea." Daney's face was white with mental and physical distress and red with confusion, by turns. His shoulder was numb.

"Why?"

"I figured that if the girl had some money to make a new start elsewhere, she'd leave Port Agnew, which would be best for all concerned."

"Why, Andrew Daney, you old hero! Cost you something to confess that, didn't it? Well--I guessed you or my father had induced her to go, so I concluded to start the investigation with you," He pa.s.sed his hand over his white dripping brow before resuming what he had to say. "The Tyee Lumber Company isn't equipped to carry on its pay-roll Mr. Donald McKaye and the man who interferes in his personal affair, even though actuated by a kindly interest. You rip up that track you're laying and leave Nan's home alone. Then you clean up your desk and hand me your resignation. I'm sick--and your d.a.m.ned interference hurts. Sorry; but you must go. Understand? Nan's coming back--understand? Coming back--devilish hot night--for this time of year, isn't it? Man, I'm burning up."

It came to Mr. Daney that the young laird was acting in a most peculiar manner. Also, he was talking that way. Consequently, and what with the distress of being dismissed from the McKaye service in such cavalier fashion, the general manager decided to twist out from under that terrible grasp on his shoulder.

Instantly, Donald released from this support, swayed and clutched gropingly for Mr. Daney's person.

"Dizzy," he panted. "Head's on strike. Mr. Daney, where the devil are you? Don't run away from me. You d.a.m.ned old muddler, if I get my hands on you I'll pick you apart--yes, I will--to see--what makes you go.

You did it, Yes, you did--even if you're too stupidly honest--to lie about it. Glad of that, though, Mr. Daney. Hate liars and interfering duffers. Ah--the cold-blooded calculation of it--took advantage of her poverty. She's gone--n.o.body knows--May G.o.d d.a.m.n your soul to the deepest h.e.l.l--Where are you? I'll kill you--no, no; forgive me, sir--Yes, you've been faithful, and you're an old employe--I wish you a very pleasant good-evening, sir."

He stepped gingerly down the three wide stairs, pitched forward, and measured his length in a bed of pansies. Mr. Daney came down, struck a match, and looked at his white face. Donald was apparently unconscious; so Mr. Daney knelt, placed his inquisitive nose close to the partly open lips, and sniffed. Then he swore his chiefest oath.

"h.e.l.l's h.e.l.ls and panther-tracks! He isn't drunk. He's sick."

Fifteen minutes later, the young Laird of Port Agnew reposed in the best room of his own hospital, and Andrew Daney was risking his life motoring at top speed up the cliff road to The Dreamerie with bad news for old Hector. Mrs. McKaye and the girls had retired but The Laird was reading in the living-room when Daney entered unannounced.

Old Hector looked up at his general manager from under his white, s.h.a.ggy brow.

"Ye, Andrew," he saluted the latter gently, "I see by your face it's not welcome news you bring. Out with it, man."

So Andrew came "out with it," omitting no detail, and at the conclusion of his recital, the old man wagged his head to emphasize his comprehension.

"My son is not a dull man by any means," he said presently. "He knows what he knows--a man sure of himself always--and oh, Andrew man, because of the brain of him and the sweet soul of him, it breaks my heart to give pain to him. And what does the doctor say?"

"From a cursory examination he suspects typhoid fever."

"Ah, that's bad, bad, Andrew."

"The boy has the strength of a Hercules, sir. He'll beat through, never fear."