Aynsley took a plan of some buildings from a drawer.

"What do you think of this?" he asked. "We could keep the new saws busy, but the job would cost about twenty thousand dollars. Could you let me have the money, or shall I go to the bank?"

Clay inspected the plan carefully.

"It's a good scheme," he declared. "If trade keeps steady, you'll soon get the cost back. I could lend you the money easily but perhaps you'd better try the bank. You've got to stand by yourself sooner or later; and it seems to me that you're getting pretty steady on your feet. Guess you're not sorry now I made you work?"

Aynsley pondered the question. In some respects the business was not to his taste, but in spite of this it was rapidly engrossing his attention.

There was a fascination in directing, planning for the future, and bringing about results.

"No," he said. "In fact, I'm getting a good deal more satisfaction out of it than I expected."

"That should help you in another matter. You won't take your not getting Osborne's girl quite so hard."

For a few moments Aynsley sat still with knitted brows. It was his habit to be honest with himself, and he saw that to some extent his father was right. He thought of Ruth with deep tenderness and regret, and he believed that he would always do so, but the poignant sense of loss which he had at first experienced had gone. He did not think that he was fickle or disloyal to her, but his new interests had somehow dulled the keenness of his pain.

"I suppose that's true," he answered quietly.

"Your real trouble will begin when you see her getting fond of another man. What are you going to do about it then?"

Aynsley winced.

"It's rather hard to speak about, but, if the fellow's fit for her, I'll try to bear it and wish them well."

"You'll make good," Clay commented with dry approval. "But I've been getting off the track. You have been sticking to your work pretty closely, and, as things are going, you can leave it without much risk. I want you to take me North for a few weeks in the yacht. The doctor recommends the trip."

It struck Aynsley that his father was not looking well. He had lost his high color, his face had grown pouchy under the eyes, and he had a strained, nervous look. Aynsley had some business on hand which demanded his personal attention, but he recognized his duty to his father. Then, the North had its fascination, and the thought of another grapple with gray seas, smothering fog, and biting gales appealed to him.

"Very well," he said. "When do you want to go?"

"As soon as we can get away. Next week, if possible. You had better tell the captain to get his crew and coal on board."

Aynsley called his secretary, and when Clay left he had arranged to meet him at Victoria in a fortnight.

The time was, however, extended; for on getting the yacht ready for sea some repairs to rigging and engines were found needful, and these took longer than the skipper expected. At last Clay received word that they would be finished in a few days, and he paid a visit to Osborne.

Reaching the house in the evening, he sat talking with his host in the library after dinner. A shaded lamp stood on a table laid out with wine and cigars, but this was the only light and beyond its circle of illumination the large room was shadowy. The floor was of polished wood, but a fine rug stretched from near the table to the door, where heavy portieres hung. The men spoke in quiet, confidential voices as they smoked.

"The Farquhar gang have separated, and I've lost track of them, but if they can sc.r.a.pe up three or four hundred dollars between them I'll be surprised," Clay said. "They're going to have some trouble in fitting out their boat; and she's a very small thing, anyway. Though the delay has worried me, we should get up there long before they do, and we only need a few days of fine weather to finish the job."

"There's some risk in your taking the diver and Aynsley," Osborne cautioned. "You may have some difficulty in keeping both in the dark."

"It oughtn't to be hard. I take the owner's berth with the small sitting-room attached, and everything we bring up will go straight in there-and I'll keep the key. The diver's business ends when he puts the stuff on deck, and after it's stowed n.o.body will touch it but myself."

"Aynsley may want to see it, and ask questions."

"Then he won't be gratified. I have him pretty well drilled, and he knows when to stop. Besides, I'll find him useful. When anything needs talking over, I'll have him to consult with instead of a paid man. The skipper's more of a sailing-master. Aynsley takes command."

"Still, you can't keep everything from him," Osborne persisted. "It seems to me there are too many people who must, to some extent, be taken into your confidence. That's where Farquhar has the advantage. He has only two partners, whom he can rely upon."

"Shucks! You get to imagining trouble! Some of the gold is there all right, and, if it's needful, I can make a show with that. For all that, I'd like a companion who knew as much as I did, and I feel a bit sore because I have to go without. It's your place to see me through, but you've got so blamed fastidious lately."

"I'm not going," Osborne answered softly, for Clay had raised his voice.

"I've had enough to do with the wreck."

Clay indicated the handsome room and its rich fittings with a wave of his hand.

"You have had your share of the plunder, and you hadn't a shack to call your own when I first got hold of you. Now, when I'm up against an awkward job, you go back on me. However, if I wanted you-"

He broke off, looking up sharply as a draught of colder air entered the room; and Osborne, turning with a start, saw Ruth standing on the rug.

Her face was in shadow, for she was outside the direct illumination of the shaded lamp, but so far as he could discern, her att.i.tude was easy and natural.

"Walter has just come back with the car and brought this telegram," she said. "I thought it might be important."

Osborne was partly rea.s.sured by her voice. She spoke in her normal tone, but he wished he could see her better.

"Thank you," he said, opening the envelope. "We'll have finished our talk before very long."

Ruth went out in silence, and Clay looked hard at Osborne.

"Could she have heard?"

"I don't think so. I hope not."

"I'd soon have found out if it had been a man," Clay said grimly.

"Anyhow, all she could have picked up wouldn't give her much of a clew."

He was wrong. Ruth's suspicions had already been aroused, and now Clay had justified them out of his own mouth. She knew that he was going north where Jimmy, who had spoken of some plan for improving his fortune, had been engaged at the wreck. Clay had mentioned a share of the plunder, so something was far from straight. Worse still, he seemed to have been urging her father to go with him.

It had cost her an effort to maintain her composure when she gave him the telegram, and her face was pale when she went downstairs and sat in a corner of the empty hall. Ruth had had a shock. Until lately she had given her indulgent father her wholehearted affection and respect. His life had long been hard, but she believed he had at last achieved success by courage and integrity. Then she began to distrust his a.s.sociation with Clay, and by degrees perplexing doubts had grown up.

She was imaginative, and when she began to form a theory, odd facts that had accidentally come to her knowledge had fitted in. Vessels, she knew, were sometimes lost by their owners' consent and frauds perpetrated on the underwriters. It was horrible to think that, but what Clay had said indicated something of the kind.

Then, as she recovered from the shock, she felt pitiful, and tried to make excuses for her father. He must have been hard pressed when he yielded to temptation, and his partner had, no doubt, placed it in his way. She was filled with a desire to protect him. He must be saved from the evil influence that had led him into wrong. She remembered that Clay had declared he owed her a debt of grat.i.tude. She would remind him of it. He must release her father from whatever hold he had on him; she had a curious confidence that he would do so if she begged it.

She waited, nerving herself for the effort, until he came downstairs and then she beckoned him into the empty drawing-room.

"I suppose my father's busy?"

"Yes; he has a letter to write."

Clay leaned carelessly on a chair-back, watching her as she stood quietly confronting him. The intentness of her expression and her stillness were significant. She suspected something, and he was sorry for her; if he could remove her suspicions, he would do so.

"Then he won't be down for some minutes," she said. "I have something to say-you have been trying to make him go North with you?"

"No; not exactly. I'm not sure I could make him; he's pretty determined.

Don't you want him to go?"

"No!" she cried. "You mustn't take him! And in future you must leave him alone. I can't let you force him to do things he hates!"

Clay smiled at her vehemence.