"Well, if I do, I haven't talked about it," Dirty Dan reminded him with asperity.

"You knew the girl had left Port Agnew and why, do you not?" Daney demanded.

"Of course I do. She left to plaze The Laird an' get rid o' the young fella. Whether Th' Laird paid her to go or not, I don't know, but I'll say this: 'If he gave her anythin' at all, 'twas d.a.m.ned little.'"

"He didn't give her a red cent," Daney protested.

"I believe you, sor," Mr. O'Leary a.s.sured him, as solemn as a Supreme Court justice. "I judged so be the way she traveled an' the hotel she shtopped at."

Daney made another dive at the returned prodigal, but Mr. O'Leary evaded him.

"Where did she travel, and what hotel did she put up at?" the general manager demanded.

"She traveled to the same places an' put up at the same hotels that I did," Dirty Dan replied evasively, for his natural love for intrigue bade him h.o.a.rd his secret to the last.

Daney sat down and said very quietly: "Dan, do you know where Nan Brent may be found?"

"Where she _may_ be found? Faith, I can tell you where she can be found--but I'll not."

"Why not?"

"Because 'tis her secret, an' why should I share it wit' you, m'anin'

no disrespect, sor, at that?"

"Your sentiments do you honor, Dan--a heap more honor than I ever thought you possessed. If Mr. Donald's life should happen to be the price of your silence, however, you'd tell me, wouldn't you?"

"I would. The young gintlemin's blood runs in my veins, sor."

"Thank you, Dan. Give me her address."

"Number one eighty-five Madison Avenue, Noo Yorrk City," Dirty Dan replied promptly. "More I do not know. Am I on the pay-roll agin?"

"You bet! I'll pick out a good job for you as soon as I find time to think about it."

"Could I have a dollar or two in advance--" the wanderer began, as Daney hastened toward the door.

"Certainly." The door slammed, and Dirty Dan could hear the general manager shouting in the general office. "Dirty Dan is back. Give him some money."

Mr. O'Leary sighed contentedly.

"Oh-ho, 'tis the great life we live," he murmured, and hastened outside to present himself at the cashier's window, while Andrew Daney continued on to the Tyee Lumber Company's hospital, tiptoed down the corridor to the room where the young Laird of Port Agnew lay dying, and rapped lightly on the door. A nurse came out and closed the door after her.

"Well?" Daney demanded.

"No change. His temperature fell two degrees during the night and he slept a little, but the fever is up again this morning, and he's raving again. Any news at your end?"

"Yes. I have the girl's address. She's in New York. Is his father inside?"

"Yes."

"Ask him to step into the reception room for a few minutes, please."

The Laird appeared promptly in response to this message, and the two men walked slowly down the hall to the reception-room. Daney closed the door and resolutely faced The Laird.

"The doctors and the nurses tell me things, sir, they're afraid to tell you," he began. "Ordinarily, the boy should be able to fight this thing through successfully, for he has a splendid body and a lot of resistance, but the fact of the matter is, he isn't trying. He doesn't want to get well."

The Laird's face went white.

"They believe this?" he cried sharply.

"They do. His subconscious mind clings to the memory of his loss. He keeps calling for her in his delirium, doesn't he? Now that he is a.s.sured she has dropped out of his life forever, he doesn't give a snap whether school keeps or not--and the doctors cannot cure him. If the girl were here--well, she might. Her very presence would bring about a strong mental and physical reaction--" He paused a moment.

Then, "I know where she can be found."

The Laird raised his haggard face and though his stern gray eyes were dull with agony, yet Daney saw in them the light of an unfaltering resolution.

"I have left my son's honor and his life in the hands of G.o.d Almighty.

I have made my bed and I'll lie in it," he panted.

"But if the boy should die--"

"Rather that than--than--"

"But you're not going to take a chance on his pulling through, in the face of the advice of the doctors that only the girl's presence can stimulate him to a desire to live. I tell you, Hector McKaye, man, he's dying because he is not interested in living."

"G.o.d's will be done, Andrew. If I asked her to come back and save my lad, I'd have to surrender him to her, and I would be derelict in my duty as a father if I permitted that. Better that he should pa.s.s out now than know the horror of a living death through all the years to come. G.o.d knows best. It is up to Him. Let there be no talk of this thing again, Andrew." Abruptly he quitted the room and returned to his vigil by the side of the son who was at once the light and the shadow of his existence.

The nurse came stealthily to the reception-room entrance and looked in inquiringly. Daney shook his head, so she came into the room and pointed at him a singularly commanding index-finger.

"If that old man is permitted to have his stubborn way, Donald McKaye will die," she declared.

"So will old Hector. He'll be dead of a broken heart within the year."

"He's sacrificing his son to his Scotch pride. Now, his mother is far more bitter against the girl than The Laird is; in her distress she accuses the Brent girl of destroying her son. Nevertheless, Mrs.

McKaye's pride and resentment are not so intense that she will sacrifice her son to them."

"Then give her this address," Daney suggested weakly, and handed it over. "I'm caught between the upper and nether millstone, and I don't care what happens to me. d.a.m.n the women, say I. d.a.m.n them! d.a.m.n them!

They're the ones that do all the talking, set up a cruel moral code, and make a broad-minded, generous man follow it."

"Thanks for the compliment," the nurse retorted blithely. "If I had time, I'd discuss the matter with you to your disadvantage, but, fortunately, I have other fish to fry. My job is to keep Donald McKaye alive for the next five or six days until Nan Brent can get here.

She'll come. I know she will. She'd lie down in the street and die for him. I know it. I spent two days with her when her father was dead, and let me tell you something, Mr. Daney: 'She's too good for them.

There! I feel better now.'"

"What a remarkable woman!" Mr. Daney reflected, as he walked back to the mill office. "What a truly remarkable woman!" Then he remembered the complications that were about to ensue, and to the wonderment of several citizens of Port Agnew, he paused in front of the post-office, threw both arms aloft in an agitated flourish, and cried audibly:

"h.e.l.l's bells and panther-tracks! I'd give a ripe peach to be in h.e.l.l or some other seaport. O Lordy, Lordy, Lordy! And all the calves got loose!"