A week or two had slipped away since Vane cut his hand. He lounged one morning upon the terrace, chatting with Carroll. It was a heavy, black morning; the hills were hidden by wrappings of leaden mist, and the still air was charged with moisture.
Suddenly a long, faint howl came up the valley and was answered by another in a deeper note. Then a confused swelling clamor broke out, softened by the distance, and slightly resembling the sound of chiming bells. Carroll stopped and listened.
"What in the name of wonder is that?" he asked. "The first of it reminded me of a coyote howling, but the rest's more like the noise the timber wolves make in the bush at night."
"You haven't made a bad shot," Vane laughed. "It's a pack of otter hounds hot upon the scent."
The sound ceased as suddenly as it had begun; and a few moments laterMabel came running toward the men.
"I knew the hounds met at Patten Brig, but Jim was sure they'd go down-stream!" she cried breathlessly. "They're coming up! I think they're at the pool below the village! Get two poles—you'll find some in the tool-shed—and come along at once!"
She climbed into the house through a window, calling for Evelyn, andCarroll smiled.
"We have our orders. I suppose we'd better go."
"It's one of the popular sports up here," Vane replied. "You may as well see it."
They set out a few minutes later, accompanied by Evelyn, while Mabel hurried on in front and reproached them for their tardiness. Sometimes they heard the hounds, sometimes a hoarse shouting that traveled far through the still air, and then sometimes there was only the tremulous song of running water. At length, after crossing several wet fields, they came to a rushy meadow on the edge of the river, which spread out into a wide pool, fringed with alders which had not yet lost their leaves and the barer withes of osiers. There was a swift stream at the head of it, and a long rippling shallow at the tail; and scattered along the bank and in the water was a curiously mixed company.
A red-coated man with whip and horn stood in the tail outflow, and three or four more with poles in their hands were spread out across the stream behind him. These, and one or two in the head stream, appeared by their dress to belong to the hunt; but the rest, among whom were a few women, were attired in every-day garments and were of different walks in life: artisans, laborers, people of leisure, and a late tourist or two.
Three or four big hounds were swimming aimlessly up and down the pool; a dozen more trotted to and fro along the water's edge, stopping to sniff and give tongue in an uncertain manner now and then; but there was no sign of an otter.
Carroll looked round with a smile when his companions stopped.
"It strikes me there'll be very little work done in this neighborhood to-day," he remarked. "I'd no idea there were so many people in the valley with time to spare. The only thing that's missing is the beast they're after."
"An otter is an almost invisible creature," Evelyn explained. "You very seldom see one, unless it's hard pressed by the dogs. There are a good many in the river, but even the trout fishers, who are about at sunrise in the hot weather and wade in the dusk, rarely come across them. Are you going to take a share in the hunt?"
"No," replied Carroll, glancing humorously at his pole. "I don't know why I brought this thing, unless it was because Mopsy sent me for it. I'd rather stay and watch with you. Splashing through a river after a little beast that I don't suppose they'd let an outsider kill doesn't interest me. I don't see why I should want to kill it, anyway. Some of you English people have sporting ideas I can't understand. I struck a young man the other day—a well-educated man by the looks of him—who was spending the afternoon happily with a ferret by a corn stack, killing rats with a club. He seemed uncommonly pleased with himself because he'd got four of them."
"Oh," chided Mabel, "you're as bad as the silly people who call killing things cruel! I wouldn't have thought it of you!"
Vane laughed.
"I've seen him drop a deer with a single-shot rifle when it was going through thick brush almost as fast as a locomotive; and I believe that he once assisted in killing a panther in a thicket where you couldn't see two yards ahead. The point is that he meant to eat the deer—and the panther had been taking a rancher's hogs."
"I'm sorry I brought him," Mabel pouted. "He's not a sportsman."
"I really think there's some excuse for the more vigorous sports," Evelyn maintained. "Of course, you can't eliminate a certain amount of cruelty; but, admitting that, isn't it just as well that men who live in a luxurious civilization should be willing to plod through miles of heather after grouse, risk their limbs on horseback, or spend hours in cold water? These are bracing things; they imply some moral discipline. It really can't be nice to ride at a dangerous fence, or to flounder down a rapid after an otter when you're stiff with cold. The effort to do so must be wholesome."
"A sure thing," Carroll agreed. "The only trouble is that when you've got your fox or otter, it isn't worth anything. A good many of the people in the newer lands, every day, have to make something of the kind of effort you describe. In their case, the results are wagon trails, valleys cleared for orchards, or new branch railroads. I suppose it's a matter of opinion, but if I'd put in a season's risky work, I'd rather have a piece of land to grow fruit on or a share in a mineral claim—you get plenty of excitement in prospecting for that—than a fox's tail."
He strolled along the bank with Evelyn, following the hunt up-stream.Suddenly he looked around.
"Mopsy's gone; and I don't see Vane."
"After all, he's one of us," Evelyn laughed. "If you're born in the North Country, it's hard to keep out of the river when you hear the otter hounds."
"But Mopsy's not going in!"
"I'm afraid I can't answer for her."
They took up their station behind a growth of alders, and for a while the dogs went trotting by in twos and threes or swam about the pool, but nothing else broke the surface of the leaden-colored water. Then there was a cry, an outbreak of shouting, a confused baying, and half a dozen hounds dashed past. More followed, heading up-stream along the bank, with a tiny brown terrier panting behind them. Evelyn stretched out her hand.
"Look!"
Carroll saw a small gray spot—the top of the otter's head—moving across the slacker part of the pool, with a very slight, wedge-shaped ripple trailing away from it. It sank the next moment; a bubble or two rose; and then there was nothing but the smooth flow of water.
A horn called shrilly; a few whip-cracks rang out like pistol-shots; and the dogs took the water, swimming slowly here and there. Men scrambled along the bank. Some, entering the river, reinforced the line spread out across the head rapid while others joined the second row wading steadily up-stream and splashing about as they advanced with iron-tipped poles. Nothing rewarded their efforts. The dogs suddenly turned and went down-stream; and then everybody ran or waded toward the tail outflow. A clamor of shouting and baying broke out; and floundering men and swimming dogs went down the stream together in a confused mass. There was a brief silence. The hounds came out and trotted to and fro along the bank; and dripping men clambered after them.
Evelyn laughed as she pointed to Vane among the leading group. He looked even wetter than the others.
"I don't suppose he meant to go in. It's in the blood."
"There's no reason why he shouldn't, if it amuses him," Carroll replied."When I first met him, he'd have been more careful of his clothes."
A little later the dogs were driven in again, and this time the whole of the otter's head was visible as it swam up-stream. The animal was flagging, and on reaching shoaler water it sprang out altogether now and then, rising and falling in the stronger stream with a curious serpentine motion. In fact, as head and body bent in the same sinuous curves, it looked less like an animal than a plunging fish. The men guarding the rapid stood ready with their poles, and more were wading and splashing up both sides of the pool. The otter's pace was getting slower; sometimes it seemed to stop; and now and then it vanished among the ripples. Carroll saw that Evelyn's face was intent, though there were signs of shrinking in it.
"I'll tell you what you are thinking," he said. "You want that poor little beast to get away."
"I believe I do," Evelyn confessed. "And you?"
"I'm afraid I'm not much of a sportsman, in this sense."
They watched with strained attention. The girl could not help it, though she dreaded the climax. Her sympathies were now with the hard-pressed, exhausted creature that was making a desperate fight for its life. The pursuers were close upon it, the swimming dogs leading them; and ahead lay a foaming rush of water which seemed less than a foot deep, with men spread out across it. The shouting from the bank had ceased, and everybody waited in tense expectancy when the otter disappeared. The dogs reached the rapid, where they were washed back a few yards before they could make headway up-stream. Men who came splashing close upon them left the water to scramble along the bank; and then they stopped abruptly, while the dogs swam in an uncertain manner about the still reach beyond. They came out in a few minutes and scampered up and down among the stones, evidently at fault, for there was no sign of the otter anywhere. Incredible as it seemed, the hunted creature, an animal that would probably weigh about twenty-four pounds, had crept up the rush of water among the feet of those who watched for it and vanished unseen into the sheltering depths beyond.
Evelyn sighed with relief.
"I think it will escape," she said. "The river's rather full after the rain, which is against the dogs, and there isn't another shallow for some distance. Shall we go on?"
They strolled forward behind the dogs, which were again moving up-stream; but they turned aside to avoid a bit of woods, and it was some time later when they came out upon a rocky promontory dropping steeply to the river. Just there, the water flowed through a deep gorge, down the sides of which great oaks and ashes straggled. In front of Carroll and his companion a ragged face of rock fell about twenty feet; but there was a little soil among the stones below, and a dense growth of alders interspersed with willows, fringed the water's edge. The stream swirled in deep black eddies beneath their drooping branches, though a little farther on it poured tumultuously between scattered boulders into the slacker pool. The rock sloped on one side, and there was a bank of underbrush near the foot of the descent.
The hunt was now widely scattered about the reach. Men crept along slippery ledges above the water and moved over dangerously slanting slopes, half hidden among the trees; a few were in the river. Three or four of the dogs were swimming; the others, spread out in twos and threes, trotted in and out among the undergrowth.
Presently, a figure creeping along the foot of the rock not far away seized Carroll's attention.
"It's Mopsy!" he exclaimed. "The foothold doesn't look very safe among those stones, and there seems to be deep water below."
He called out in warning, but the girl did not heed. The willows were thinner at the spot she had reached, and, squeezing herself through them, she leaned down, clinging to an alder branch.
"He's gone to holt among the roots!" she cried.
Three or four men running along the opposite bank apparently decided that she was right, for the horn was sounded and here and there a dog broke through the underbrush. Just as the first-comers reached the rapid, there was a splash. It was a moment or two before Evelyn or Carroll, who had been watching the dogs, realized what had happened; then the blood ebbed from the girl's face. Mabel had disappeared.
Running a few paces forward, Carroll saw what looked like a bundle of outspread garments swing round in an eddy. It washed in among the willows, and he heard a faint cry.
"Help!—Quick! I've caught a branch!"
He could not see the girl now, but an alder branch was bending sharply, and he flung a rapid glance around him. The summit of the rock on which he stood rose above the trees. Had there been a better landing, he would have faced the risky fall, but it seemed impossible to alight among the stones without a broken leg. Even if he came down uninjured, there was a barrier of tangled branches and densely growing withes between him and the river, and the opening through which Mabel had fallen was some distance away. Farther down-stream, he might reach the water by a reckless jump, as the promontory sloped toward it there, but he would not be able to swim back against the current. His position was a painful one; there was nothing that he could do.
The next moment, men and dogs went scrambling and swimming down the rapid. They were in hot pursuit of the otter, which had left its hiding place, and it was evident that the girl, clinging to a branch beneath the willows, had escaped their attention. Carroll shouted savagely as his comrade appeared among the tail of the hunt below. The others were too much occupied to heed; or perhaps they concluded that he was urging them on.
"Help! Mabel!" Carroll shouted again and again, gesticulating wildly in his desperation.
Vane, waist-deep in the water, seemed to catch the girl's name and understand. In a few moments he was swimming down the pool along the edge of the alders. Then Carroll saw that Evelyn expected him to take some part in the rescue.
"Get down before it's too late!" she cried.
Carroll spread out his hands, as if to beg her forbearance. While every impulse urged him to the leap, he endeavored to keep his head. He fancied that he would be wanted later, and it was obvious that he would not be available if he lay upon the rocks below with broken bones.
"I can't do any good just now," he tried to explain, knowing that he was right and yet feeling horribly ashamed. "She's holding on, and Wallace will reach her in a moment or two."
Evelyn broke out at him in an agony of fear and anger.
"You coward! Will you let her drown?"
She turned and ran forward, but Carroll, dreading that she meant to attempt the descent, seized her shoulder and held her fast. While he grappled with her, Vane's voice rose from below, and he let his hands drop.
"Wallace has her. There's no more danger," he said quietly.
Evelyn suddenly recovered a small degree of calm. Even amid the stress of her terror, she recognized the assurance in the man's tone. He had blind confidence in his comrade's prowess, and his next words made this impression clearer.
"Don't be afraid. He'll never let go until he brings her out."
Standing, breathless, a pace or two apart, they saw Vane and the girl appear from beneath the willows and wash away down-stream. The man was swimming, but he was hampered by his burden, and once he and Mabel sank almost from sight in a whirling eddy. Carroll said nothing. Turning, he ran along the sloping ridge until the fall was less and the trees were thinner; then he leaped out into the air. He broke through the alders amid a rustle of bending boughs, and disappeared; but a moment or two later his shoulders shot out of the water close beside Vane, and the two men went down the stream with Mabel between them.
Evelyn scrambled wildly along the ridge, and when she reached the foot of it, Vane was helping Mabel up the sloping bank of gravel. The girl's drenched garments clung about her, and her wet hair was streaked across her face, but she seemed able to stand. The hunt had swept on through shoaler water, but there was a cheer from the stragglers across the river. Evelyn clutched her sister, half laughing, half sobbing, and incoherently upbraided her. Mabel shook herself free, and her first remark was characteristic.
"Oh, don't make a silly fuss! I'm only wet through. Wallace, take me home."
She tried to shake out her dripping skirt, and Vane picked her up, as she seemed to expect it. The others followed when he pushed through the underbrush toward a neighboring meadow. Evelyn, however, was still a little unnerved, and when they reached a gap in a wall she stopped and leaned heavily against the stones.
"I think I'm more disturbed than Mopsy is," she said to Carroll. "What I felt must be some excuse for me. You were right, of course. I'm sorry for what I said; it was unjustifiable."
Carroll laughed lightly.
"Anyway, it was perfectly natural; but I must confess that I felt some temptation to make a spectacular fool of myself. I might have jumped into those alders, but it's most unlikely that I could have got out of them."
Evelyn looked at him with a new respect. He had not troubled to point out that he had not flinched from the jump when it seemed likely to be of service.
"How could you have the sense to think of that?" she asked.
"I suppose it's a matter of practise. One can't work among the ranges and rivers without learning to make the right decision rapidly. When you don't, you get badly hurt. With most of us, the thing has to be cultivated; it's not instinctive."
Evelyn was struck by the explanation. This acquired coolness was a finer thing, and undoubtedly more useful, than hot-headed gallantry, though she admired the latter. She was young, and physical prowess appealed to her; besides, it had been displayed in saving her sister's life. Carroll and his comrade were men of varied and romantic experience; and they possessed, she fancied, qualities not shared by all their fellows.
"Wallace was splendid in the water!" she exclaimed, uttering part of her thoughts aloud.
"I thought rather more of him in the city," Carroll replied. "That kind of thing was new to him, and I'm inclined to believe that I'd have let the people he had to negotiate with have the mine for a good deal less than he eventually got for it. But I've said something about that before; and, after all, I'm not here to play Boswell."
The girl was surprised at the apt allusion; it was not what she would have expected from the man. As she had not wholly recovered her composure, she forgot what Vane had told her about him, and her comment was an incautious one:
"How did you hear of him?"
Carroll parried this with a smile.
"You don't suppose you can keep those old fellows to yourselves—they're international. But hadn't we better be getting on? Let me help you through the gap."
They reached the Dene some time later, and Mabel, very much against her wishes, was sent to bed. Shortly afterward Carroll came across Vane, who had changed his clothes and was strolling up and down among the shrubberies.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
Vane looked embarrassed.
"For one thing, I'm keeping out of Mrs. Chisholm's way; she's inclined to be effusive. For another, I'm trying to think out what I ought to do. We'll have to pull out very shortly; and I had meant to have an interview with Evelyn to-day. That's why I feel uncommonly annoyed with Mopsy for falling in."
Carroll made a grimace.
"If that's how it strikes you, any advice I could offer would be wasted.A sensible man would consider it a promising opportunity."
"And trade upon it? As you know, there wasn't the slightest risk, with branches that one could get hold of, and a shelving bank almost within reach."
"Do you really want the girl?"
"That impression's firmly in my mind," Vane said curtly.
"Then you'd better pitch your Quixotic notions overboard and tell her so."
Vane frowned but made no answer; and Carroll, recognizing that his comrade was not inclined to be communicative, left him pacing up and down.
Dusk was drawing on, but there was still a little light in the western sky, when Vane strolled along the terrace in front of the Dene. In the distance the ranks of fells rose black and solemn out of filmy trails of mist, but the valley had faded to a trough of shadow. A faint breeze was stirring, and the silence was broken by the soft patter of withered leaves which fluttered down across the lawn. Vane noticed it all by some involuntary action of his senses, for although, at the time, he was oblivious to his surroundings, he afterward found that he could recall each detail of the scene with vivid distinctness. He was preoccupied and eager, but fully aware of the need for coolness, for it was quite possible that he might fail in the task he had in hand.
Presently he saw Evelyn, for whom he had been waiting, cross the opposite end of the terrace. Moving forward he joined her at the entrance to a shrubbery walk. A big, clipped yew with a recess in which a seat had been placed stood close by.
"I have been sitting with Mopsy," said Evelyn. "She seems very little the worse for her adventure—thanks to you." She hesitated and her voice grew softer. "I owe you a heavy debt—I am very fond of Mopsy."
"It's a great pity she fell in," Vane declared curtly.
Evelyn looked at him in surprise. She scarcely thought he could regret the efforts he had made on her sister's behalf, but that was what his words implied. He noticed her change of expression.
"The trouble is that the thing might seem to give me some claim on you; and I don't want that," he explained. "It cost me no more than a wetting; I hadn't the least difficulty in getting her out."
His companion was still puzzled. She could find no fault with him for being modest about his exploit, but that he should make it clear that he did not require her gratitude struck her as unnecessary.
"For all that, you did bring her out," she persisted. "Even if it causes you no satisfaction, the fact is of some importance to us."
"I don't seem to be beginning very fortunately. What I mean is that I don't want to urge my claim, if I have one. I'd rather be taken on my merits." He paused a moment with a smile. "That's not much better, is it? But it partly expresses what I feel. Leaving Mopsy out altogether, let me try to explain—I don't wish you to be influenced by anything except your own idea of me. I'm saying this because one or two points that seem in my favor may have a contrary effect."
Evelyn made no answer, and he indicated the seat.
"Won't you sit down? I have something to say."
The girl did as he suggested, and his smile died away.
"Would you be astonished if I were to ask you to marry me?"
He leaned against the smooth wall of yew, looking down at her with an impressive steadiness of gaze. She could imagine him facing the city men from whom he had extorted the full value of his mine in the same fashion, and, in a later instance, so surveying the eddies beneath the osiers, when he had gone to Mabel's rescue. It was borne in upon her that they would better understand each other.
"No," she answered. "If I must be candid, I am not astonished." Then the color crept into her cheeks as she met his gaze. "I suppose it is an honor; and it is undoubtedly a—temptation."
"A temptation?"
"Yes," said Evelyn, mustering her courage to face a crisis she had dreaded. "It is only due you that you should hear the truth—though I think you suspect it. Besides—I have some liking for you."
"That is what I wanted you to own!" Vane broke in.
She checked him with a gesture. Her manner was cold, and yet there was something in it that stirred him more than her beauty.
"After all," she explained, "it does not go very far, and you must try to understand. I want to be quite honest, and what I have to say is—difficult. In the first place, things are far from pleasant for me here; I was expected to make a good marriage, and I had my chance in London. I refused to profit by it, and now I'm a failure. I wonder whether you can realize what a temptation it is to get away?"
Vane frowned.
"Yes," he responded. "It makes me savage to think of it! I can, at least, take you out of all this. If you hadn't had a very fine courage, you wouldn't have told me."
Evelyn smiled, a curious wry smile.
"It has only prompted me to behave, as most people would consider, shamelessly; but there are times when one must get above that point of view. Besides, there's a reason for my candor—had you been a man of different stamp, it's possible that I might have been driven into taking the risk. We should both have suffered for a time, but we might have reached an understanding—not to intrude on each other—through open variance. As it is, I could not do you that injustice, and I should shrink from marrying you with only a little cold liking."
The man held himself firmly in hand. Her calmness had infected him, and he felt that this was not an occasion for romantic protestations, even had he felt capable of making them, which was not the case. As a matter of fact, such things were singularly foreign to his nature.
"Even that would go a long way with me, if I could get nothing better," he declared. "Besides, you might change. I could surround you with some comfort; I think I could promise not to force my company upon you; I believe I could be kind."
"Yes," assented Evelyn. "I shouldn't be afraid of harshness from you; but it seems impossible that I should change. You must see that you started handicapped from the beginning. Had I been free to choose, it might have been different, but I have lived for some time in shame and fear, hating the thought that some one would be forced on me."
He said nothing and she went on.
"Must I tell you? You are the man!"
His face grew hard and for a moment he set his lips tight. It would have been a relief to express his feelings concerning his host just then.
"If you don't hate me for it now, I'm willing to take the risk," he said at length. "It will be my fault if you hate me in the future; I'll try not to deserve it."
He fancied that she was yielding, but she roused herself with an effort.
"No. Love on one side may go a long way, if it is strong enough—but it must be strong to overcome the many clashes of thought and will. Yours"—she looked at him steadily—"would not stand the strain."
Vane started.
"You are the only woman I ever wished to marry," he declared vehemently.
He paused and spread out his hands.
"What can I say to convince you?"
"I'm afraid it's impossible. If you had wanted me greatly, you would have pressed the claim you had in saving Mopsy, and I should have forgiven you that; you would have urged any and every claim. As it is, I suppose I am pretty"—her lips curled scornfully—"and you find that some of your ideas and mine agree. It isn't half enough! Shall I tell you that you are scarcely moved as yet?"
It flashed upon Vane that he was confronted with the reality. Her beauty had appealed to him, and her other qualities—her reserved graciousness with its tinge of dignity, her insight and her comprehension—had also had their effect; but they had only awakened admiration and respect. He desired her as one desires an object for its rarity and preciousness; but this, as she had told him, was not enough. Behind her physical and mental attributes, and half revealed by them, there was something deeper: the real personality of the girl. It was elusive, mystic, with a spark of immaterial radiance which might brighten human love with its transcendent glow; but, as he dimly realized, if he won her by force, it might recede and vanish altogether. He could not, with strong ardor, compel its clearer manifestation.
"I think I am moved as much as it is possible for me to be."
Evelyn shook her head.
"No; you will discover the difference some day, and then you will thank me for leaving you your liberty. Now I beg you to leave me mine and let me go."
Vane stood silent a minute or two, for the last appeal had stirred him to chivalrous pity. He was shrewd enough to realize that if he persisted he could force her to come to him. Her father and mother were with him; she had nothing—no commonplace usefulness nor trained abilities—to fall back on if she defied them. But it was unthinkable that he should brutally compel her.
"Well," he yielded at length, "I must try to face the situation; I want to assure you that it is not a pleasant one to me. But there's another point—I'm afraid I've made things worse for you. Your people will probably blame you for sending me away."
Evelyn did not answer this, and he broke into a grim smile.
"Well," he added, "I think I can save you any trouble on that score—though the course I'm going to take isn't flattering, if you look at it in one way, I want you to leave me to deal with your father."
He took her consent for granted, and leaning down laid a hand lightly on her shoulder.
"You will try to forgive me for the anxiety I have caused you? The time I've spent here has been very pleasant, but I'm going back to Canada in a day or two. Perhaps you'll think of me without bitterness now and then."
He turned away; and Evelyn sat still, glad that the strain was over, thinking earnestly. The man was gentle and considerate as well as forceful, and to some extent she liked him. Indeed, she admitted that she had not met any man she liked as much; but that was not going very far. Then she began to wonder at her candor, and to consider if it had been necessary. It was curious that this was the only man she had ever taken into her confidence. It struck her that her next suitor would probably be a much less promising specimen. On the other hand, since her views on the subject differed from those her parents held, it was consoling to remember that eligible suitors for the daughter of an impoverished gentleman were likely to be scarce.
It had grown dark when she rose and entering the house went up to Mabel's room. The girl looked at her sharply as she came in.
"So you have got rid of him!" she said. "I think you're very silly."
"How did you know?" Evelyn asked with a start.
"I heard him walking up and down the terrace, and I heard you go out. You can't walk over raked gravel without making a noise. He went along to join you, and it was a good while before you came back at different times. I've been waiting for this the last day or two."
Evelyn sat down with a rather strained smile.
"Well, I have sent him away."
Mabel regarded her indignantly.
"You'll never get another chance like this one. If I'd been in your place, I'd have had Wallace if it had cost me no end of trouble to get him. He said something about its being a pity I wasn't older, one day, and I told him that I wasn't by any means as young as I looked. If you had only taken him, I could have worn decent frocks. Nobody could call the last one that!"
This was a favorite grievance, and Evelyn ignored it; but Mabel had more to say.
"I suppose," she went on, "you don't know that Wallace has been gettingGerald out of trouble?"
"Are you sure of that?"
"Yes. I'll tell you what I know. Wallace saw Gerald in London—he told us that—and we all know that Gerald couldn't pay his debts a little while ago. You remember he came down to Kendall and went on and stayed the next night with the Claytons. It isn't astonishing that he didn't come here, after the row there was on the last occasion."
"Go on," prompted Evelyn impatiently. "What has his visit to theClayton's to do with it?"
"Well, you don't know that I saw Gerald in the afternoon. After all, he's the only brother I've got; and as Jim was going to the station with the trap I made him take me. The Claytons were in the garden; we were scattered about, and I heard Frank and Gerald, who had strolled off from the others, talking. Gerald was telling him about some things he'd bought—they must have been expensive, because Frank asked him where he got the money. Gerald laughed and said he'd had an unexpected stroke of luck that had set him straight again. Now, of course Gerald got no money from home, and if he'd won it he would have told Frank how he did so. Gerald always would tell a thing like that."
Evelyn was filled with confusion and hot indignation. She had little doubt that Mabel's surmise was correct.
"I wonder whether he has told anybody; though it's scarcely likely."
Mabel laughed.
"Of course he hasn't. We all know what Gerald is. Before I came home, I asked him what he thought of Wallace. He said he was a good sort, or something like that, and I saw that he had a reason for saying it; but he must go on in his patronizing style that Wallace was rather Colonial, though he hadn't drifted too far—not beyond reclamation. After all, Wallace was one of—us—before he went out; and if Carroll's Colonial he's the kind of man I like. I was so angry with Gerald I wanted to slap him!"
There was no doubt that Mabel was a staunch partizan, and Evelyn sympathized with her. She was, of course, acquainted with her brother's character, and she was filled with indignant contempt for him. It was intolerable that he should have allowed Vane to discharge his debts and then have alluded to him in terms of indulgent condescension.
"It strikes me Wallace ought to get his money back, now that you have sent him away," Mabel added. "But of course that's most unlikely. It wouldn't take Gerald long to waste it."
Evelyn rose and, making some excuse, left the room. She could feel her face growing hot, and Mabel had unusually keen eyes and precocious powers of deduction. A suspicion which had troubled her more than Gerald's conduct had lately crept into her mind, and it now thrust itself upon her attention; several things pointed to the fact that her father had taken the same course her brother had done. She felt that had she heard Mabel's information before the interview with Vane, she might have yielded to him in an agony of humiliation. Mabel had summed up the situation with stinging candor and crudity—Vane, who had been defrauded, was entitled to recover his money. For a few moments Evelyn was furiously angry with him, and then, growing calmer, she recognized that this was unreasonable. She could not imagine any idea of a compact originating with the man, and he had quietly acquiesced in her decision.
Soon after she left her sister, Vane walked into the room which Chisholm reserved for his own use. It was handsomely furnished, and the big, light-oak writing-table and glass-fronted cabinets were examples of artistic handicraft. The sight of them jarred on Vane, who had already surmised that it was the women of the Chisholm family who were expected to practise self-denial. Chisholm was sitting at the table with some papers in front of him and a cigar in his hand, and Vane drew out a chair and lighted his pipe before he addressed him.
"I've made up my mind to sail on Saturday, instead of next week," he said abruptly.
"You have decided rather suddenly, haven't you?" Chisholm suggested.
Vane knew that what his host wished to know was the cause of the decision, and he meant to come to the point. He was troubled by no consideration for the man.
"The last news I had indicated that I was wanted," he replied. "After all, there is only one reason why I have abused Mrs. Chisholm's hospitality so long."
"Well?"
"You will remember what I asked you some time ago. I had better say thatI retire from the position—abandon the idea."
Chisholm started and his florid face grew redder, while Vane, in place of embarrassment, was conscious of a somewhat grim amusement. It seemed curious that a man of Chisholm's stamp should have any pride.
"What am I to understand by that?" Chisholm asked with some asperity.
"I think that what I said explained it. Bearing in mind your and Mrs. Chisholm's influence, I've an idea that Evelyn might have yielded, if I'd strongly urged my suit; but that was not by any means what I wanted. I'd naturally prefer a wife who married me because she wished to do so. That's why, after thinking the thing over, I've decided to—withdraw."
Chisholm straightened himself in his chair in fiery indignation, which he made no attempt to conceal.
"You mean that after asking my consent, and seeing more of Evelyn, you have changed your mind! Can't you understand that it's an unpardonable confession—one which I never fancied a man born and brought up in your station could have brought himself to make?"
Vane looked at him with an impassive face.
"It strikes me as largely a question of terms—I may not have used the right one. Now that you know how the matter stands, you can describe it in any way that sounds nicest. In regard to your other remark, I've been in a good many stations, and I must admit that until lately none of them were likely to promote much delicacy of sentiment."
"So it seems!" Chisholm was almost too hot to sneer. "But can't you realize how your action reflects upon my daughter?"
Vane held himself in hand. He had only one object: to divert Chisholm's wrath from Evelyn to himself, and he fancied that he was succeeding in this. For the rest, he was conscious of a strong resentment against the man. Evelyn had told him that he had started handicapped.
"It can't reflect upon her unless you talk about it, and both you and Mrs. Chisholm have sense enough to refrain from doing that," he answered dryly. "I can't flatter myself that Evelyn will grieve over me." Then his manner changed. "Now we'll get down to business. I don't purpose to call in that loan, which will, no doubt, be a relief to you."
He rose leisurely and strolled out of the room.
Shortly afterward he met Carroll in the hall, and the latter glanced at him sharply.
"What have you been doing?" he inquired. "There's a look in your eyes I seem to remember."
Vane laughed.
"I suppose I've been outraging the rules of decency; but I don't feel ashamed. I've been acting the uncivilized Westerner, though it's possible that I rather strained the part. To come to the point, however, we pull out for the Dominion first thing to-morrow."
Carroll asked no further questions; he did not think it would serve any purpose. He contented himself with making arrangements for their departure, which they took early on the morrow. Vane had a brief interview with Mabel, and then by her contrivance he secured a word or two with Evelyn alone.
"It is possible," he told her, "that you may hear some hard things of me—and I count upon your not contradicting them. After all, I think you owe me that favor. There's just another matter—now that I won't be here to trouble you, won't you try to think of me leniently?"
He held her hand for a moment and then turned away, and a few minutes later he and Carroll left the Dene.
About a fortnight after Vane's return to Vancouver, he sat one evening on the veranda of Nairn's house, in company with his host and Carroll, lazily looking down upon the inlet. The days were growing shorter; the air was clear and cool; and the snow upon the heights across the still, blue water was creeping lower down. The clatter of a steamer's winches rose sharply from the wharf, and the sails of two schooners gleamed against the dark pines that overhang the Narrows.
In some respects, Vane was glad to be back in the western city. At first, the ease and leisure at the Dene had their charm for him, but by degrees he came to chafe at them. The green English valley, hemmed in by its sheltering hills, was steeped in too profound a tranquillity; the stream of busy life passed it by with scarcely an entering ripple to break its drowsy calm. One found its atmosphere enervating, dulling to the faculties. In the new West, however, one was forcibly thrust into contact with a strenuous activity. Life was free and untrammeled there; it flowed with a fierce joyousness in natural channels, and one could feel the eager throb of it.
Yet the man was not content. He had been to the mine, and in going and coming he had ridden far over a very rough trail, but the physical effort had not afforded a sufficient outlet for his pent-up energies. He had afterward lounged about the city for nearly a week, and he found this becoming monotonous.
Nairn presently referred to one of the papers in his hand.
"Horsfield has been bringing up that smelter project again, and there's something to be said in favor of his views," he remarked. "We're paying a good deal for reduction."
"We couldn't keep a smelter going, at present," Vane objected.
"There are two or three low-grade mineral properties in the neighborhood of the Clermont that have had very little development work done on them. They can't pay freight on their raw product, but I'm thinking that we'd encourage their owners to open up the mines, and we'd get their business, if we had a smelter handy."
"It wouldn't amount to much," Vane replied. "Besides, there's another objection—we haven't the money to put up a thoroughly efficient plant."
"Horsfield's ready to find part of it and to do the work."
"I know he is." Vane frowned. "It strikes me he's suspiciously anxious. The arrangement he has in view would give him a pretty strong hold upon the company; and there are ways in which he could squeeze us."
"It's possible. But, looking at it as a purely personal matter, there are inducements he could offer ye. Horsfield's a man who has the handling of other folks' money, if he has no that much of his own. It might be wise to stand in with him."
"So he hinted," Vane answered dryly.
"Your argument was about the worst you could have used, Mr. Nairn,"Carroll laughed.
"Weel," drawled Nairn good-humoredly, "I'm no urging it. I would not see your partner make enemies for the want of a warning."
"He'd probably do so, in any case; it's a gift of his. On the other hand, it's fortunate that he has a way of making friends. The two things sometimes go together."
Vane turned to Nairn with signs of impatience.
"It might save trouble if I state that while I'm a director of the Clermont I expect to be content with a fair profit on my stock in the company."
"He's modest," Carroll commented. "What he means is that he doesn't propose to augment that profit by taking advantage of his position."
"It's a creditable idea, though I'm no sure it's as common as might be desired. While I have to thank ye for it, I would not consider the explanation altogether necessary." Nairn's eyes twinkled for a moment, and then he turned seriously to Vane. "Now we come to another point—the company's a small one, the mine is doing satisfactorily, and the moment's favorable for the floating of mineral properties. If we got an option on the half-developed claims near the Clermont and went into the market, it's likely that an issue of new stock would meet with the favor of investors."
"I suppose so," Vane responded. "I'll support such a scheme when I can see how an increased capital could be used to advantage and am convinced about the need for a smelter. At present that's not the case."
"I mentioned it as a duty—-ye'll hear more of it. For the rest, I'm inclined to agree with ye."
A few minutes later, Nairn went into the house with Carroll, and as they entered he glanced at his companion.
"In the present instance, Mr. Vane's views are sound," he said. "But I see difficulties before him in his business career."
"So do I," smiled Carroll. "When he grapples with them it will be by a frontal attack."
"A bit of compromise is judicious now and then."
"In a general way, it's not likely to appeal to Vane. When he can't get through by direct means, there'll be something wrecked. You'd better understand what kind of man he is."
Nairn made a sign of concurrence.
"It's no the first time I've been enlightened upon the point."
Shortly after they had disappeared, Miss Horsfield came out of another door, and Vane rose when she approached him. He had always found her a pleasant companion.
"Mrs. Nairn told me I would find you and the others on the veranda," she informed him. "She said she would join you presently. It is too fine an evening to stay in."
"I'm alone, as you see. Nairn and Carroll have just deserted me: but I can't complain. What pleases me most about this house is that you can do what you like in it, and—within limits—the same thing applies to this city."
Jessy laughed as she sank gracefully into the chair he drew forward. She was, as a rule, deliberate in her movements, and her pose was usually an effective one.
"Yes," she replied; "I think that would please you. But how long have you been back?"
"A fortnight, yesterday."
There was a hint of reproach in Jessy's glance.
"Then I think Mrs. Nairn might have brought you over to see us."
Vane wondered whether she meant that she was surprised that he had not come of his own accord. He felt mildly flattered. She was interesting, and knew how to listen sympathetically, as well as how to talk, and she was also a lady of station in the western city.
"I was away at the mine a good deal of the time," he explained.
"I wonder if you are sorry to get back?"
Turning a little, Vane indicated the climbing city, rising tier on tier above its water-front; and then the broad expanse of blue inlet and the faint white line of towering snow.
"Wouldn't anything I could say in praise of Vancouver be a trifle superfluous?" he asked.
Jessy recognized that he had parried her question neatly, but this did not deter her. She was anxious to learn whether he had felt any regret at leaving England, or, to be more concise, if there was anybody in that country from whom he had reluctantly parted. She admitted that the man attracted her. There was a breezy freshness about him which he had brought from the rocks and woods, and though she was acquainted with a number of young men whose conversation was characterized by snap and sparkle, they needed toning down. This miner was set apart from them by something which he had doubtless acquired in youth in the older land.
"That wasn't quite what I meant," she returned. "We don't always want to be flattered. I'm in search of information. You told me that you had been eight or nine years in this country, and life must be rather different yonder. How did it and the people you belong to strike you after the absence?"
"It's difficult to explain," Vane replied with an air of amused reflection which hinted that he meant to get away from the point. "On the whole, I think I'm more interested in the question as to how I struck them. It's curious that whereas some people here insist on considering me English, I've a suspicion that they looked upon me as a typical Colonial there."
"One wouldn't like to think you resented it."
"How could I? This land sheltered me when I was an outcast; it provided me with a living, widened my views, and set me on my feet."
"Ah!" murmured Jessy, "you are the kind we don't mind taking in. The others go back and try to forget us, or abuse us. But you haven't given me very much information yet."
"Well," drawled Vane, "the best comparison is supplied by my first remark—that in this city you can do what you like. You're rather fenced in yonder. If you're of a placid disposition, that, no doubt, is comforting, because it shuts out unpleasant things. On the other hand, if you happen to be restless and active, the fences are inconvenient, for you can't always climb over—and it is not considered proper to break them down. Still, having admitted that, I'm proud of the old land. If one has means and will conform, it's the finest country in the world! It's only the fences that irritate me."
"Fences would naturally be obnoxious to you. But we have some here."
"They're generally built loose, of split-rails, and not nailed. An energetic man can pull off a bar or two and stride over. If it's necessary, he can afterward put them up again, and there's no harm done."
"Would you do the latter?"
Vane's expression changed.
"No. I think if there were anything good on the other side, I'd widen the gap so that the less agile and the needy could crawl through." He smiled at her. "You see, I owe some of them a good deal. They were the only friends I had when I first tramped, jaded and footsore, about the Province."
Jessy was pleased with his answer. She had heard of the free hospitality of the bush choppers, and she thought it was a graceful thing that he should acknowledge his debt to them. She was also pleased that she could lead him on to talk unreservedly.
"Now at last you'll be content to rest a while," she suggested. "I dare say you deserve it."
"It's strange that you should say that, because just before you came out of the house I was thinking that I'd sat still long enough. It's a thing that gets monotonous. One must keep going on."
"Take care that you don't walk over a precipice some day when you have left all the fences behind. But I've kept you from your meditations, and I had better see if Mrs. Nairn is coming."
He was sitting alone, lighting a cigar, when he noticed a girl whose appearance seemed familiar in the road below. Moving along the veranda, he recognized her as Kitty, and hastily crossed the lawn toward her. She was accompanied by a young man whom Vane had once or twice seen in the city, and she greeted him with evident pleasure.
"Tom," she introduced, when they had exchanged a few words, "this is Mr.Vane." Turning to Vane she added: "Mr. Drayton."
Vane liked the man's face and manner. He shook hands with him, and then looked back at Kitty.
"What are you doing now; and how are little Elsie and her mother?"
Kitty's face clouded.
"Mrs. Marvin's dead. Elsie's with some friends at Spokane, and I think she's well looked after. I've given up the stage. Tom"—she explained shyly—"didn't like it. Now I'm with some people at a ranch near the Fraser, on the Westminster road. There are two or three children, and I'm very fond of them."
"She won't be there long," Drayton interposed. "I've wanted to meet you for some time, Mr. Vane. They told me at the office that you were away."
Vane smiled comprehendingly.
"I suppose my congratulations will not be out of place? Won't you ask me to the wedding?"
Kitty blushed.
"Will you come?"
"Try!"
"There's nobody we would rather see," declared Drayton. "I'm heavily in your debt, Mr. Vane."
"Pshaw!" rejoined Vane. "Come to see me any time—to-morrow, if you can manage it."
Drayton said that he would do so, and shortly afterward he and Kitty moved away. Vane turned back across the lawn; but he was not aware that Jessy Horsfield had watched the meeting from the veranda and had recognized Kitty, whom she had once seen at the station. She had already ascertained that the girl had arrived in Vancouver in Vane's company, and, in view of the opinion she had formed of him, this somewhat puzzled her; but she decided that one must endeavor to be charitable. Besides, having closely watched the little group, she was inclined to believe from the way Vane shook hands with the man that there was no danger to be apprehended from Kitty.
Vane was sitting alone in the room set apart for the Clermont Company in Nairn's office when Drayton was shown in. He took the chair Vane indicated and lighted a cigar the latter gave him.
"Now," he began with some diffidence, "you cut me off short when I met you the other day, and one of my reasons for coming over was to get through with what I was saying then. It's just this—I owe you a good deal for taking care of Kitty; she's very grateful and thinks no end of you. I want to say I'll always feel that you have a claim on me."
Vane smiled at him. It was evident that Kitty had taken her lover into her confidence with regard to her trip aboard the sloop, and that she had done so said a good deal for her. He thought one might have expected a certain amount of half-jealous resentment, or even faint suspicion, on the man's part; but there was no sign of this. Drayton believed in Kitty, and that was strongly in his favor.
"It didn't cost me any trouble," Vane replied. "We were coming toVancouver, anyway."
Drayton's embarrassment became more obvious.
"It cost you some money—there were the tickets. Now I feel that I have to—"
"Nonsense! When you are married to Miss Blake, you can pay me back, if it will be a relief to you. When's the wedding to be?"
"In a couple of months," answered Drayton. He saw that it would be useless to protest. "I'm a clerk in the Winstanley mills, and as one of the staff is going, I'll get a move up then. We are to be married as soon as I do."
He said a little more on the same subject, and then after a few moments' silence he added:
"I wonder if the Clermont business keeps your hands full, Mr. Vane?"
"It doesn't. It's a fact I'm beginning to regret."
Drayton appeared to consider.
"Well," he said, "people seem to regard you as a rising man with snap in him, and there's a matter I might, perhaps, bring before you. Let me explain. I'm a clerk on small pay, but I've taken an interest outside my routine work in the lumber trade of this Province and its subsidiary branches. I figured any knowledge I could pick up might stand me in some money some day. So far"—he smiled ruefully—"it hasn't done so."
"Go on," prompted Vane. His curiosity was aroused.
"It has struck me that pulping spruce—paper spruce—is likely to be scarce presently. The supply's not unlimited and the world's consumption is going up by jumps."
"There's a good deal of timber you could use for pulp, in BritishColumbia alone," Vane interposed.
"Sure. But there's not a very great deal that could be milled into high-grade paper pulp; and it's getting rapidly worked out in most other countries. Then, as a rule, it's mixed up with firs, cedars and cypresses; and that means the cutting of logging roads to each cluster of milling trees. There's another point—a good deal of the spruce lies back from water or a railroad, and in some cases it would be costly to bring in a milling plant or to pack the pulp out."
"That's obvious; anyway, where you would have to haul every pound of freight over a breakneck divide."
Drayton leaned forward confidentially.
"Then if one struck high-grade paper spruce—a whole valley full of it—with water power and easy access to the sea, there ought to be money in the thing?"
"Yes," Vane answered with growing interest; "that strikes me as very probable."
"I believe I could put you on the track of such a valley."
Vane looked at him thoughtfully.
"We'd better understand each other. Do you want to sell me your knowledge? And have you offered it to anybody else?"
His companion answered with the candor he expected.
"Kitty and I aren't going to find it easy to get along—rents are high in this city. I want to give her as much as I can; but I'm willing to leave you to do the square thing. The Winstanley people have their hands full and won't look at any outside matter, and the one or two people I've spoken to don't seem anxious to consider it. It's mighty hard for a little man to launch a project."
"It is," Vane agreed sympathetically.
"Then," Drayton continued, "the idea's not my own. It was a mineral prospector—a relative of mine—who struck the valley on his last trip. He's an old man, and he came down played out and sick. Now I guess he's slowly dying." He paused a moment. "Would you like to see him?"
"I'll go with you now, if it's convenient," Vane replied.
Drayton said that he might spare another half-hour without getting into trouble, and they crossed the city to where a row of squalid frame shacks stood on its outskirts. In the one they entered, a gaunt man with grizzled hair lay upon a rickety bed. A glance showed Vane that the man was very frail, and the harsh cough that he broke into as the colder air from outside flowed in made the fact clearer. Drayton, hastily shutting the door and explaining the cause of the visit, motioned Vane to sit down.
"I've heard of you," said the prospector, fixing his eyes on Vane. "You're the man who located the Clermont—and put the project through. You had the luck. I've been among the ranges half my life—and you can see how much I've made of it! When I struck a claim that was worth anything somebody else got the money."
Vane had reasons for believing that this was not an uncommon experience.
"Well," the man continued, "you look straight—and I've got to take some chances. It's my last stake. We'll get down to business. I'll tell you about that spruce."
He spoke for a few minutes, and then asked abruptly:
"What are you going to offer?"
Vane had not been certain that he would make any offer at all; but, as had befallen him once or twice before, the swift decision flashed instinctively into his mind.
"If I find that the timber and its location come up to your account of it, I'll pay you so many dollars down—whatever we can agree on—when I get my lease from the land office. Then I'll make another equal payment the day we start the mill. But I don't bind myself to record the timber or to put up a mill, unless I'm convinced that it's worth while."
"I'd rather take less money and have a small share in the concern; andDrayton must stand in."
"It's a question of terms," Vane replied. "I'll consider your views."
They discussed it for a while, and when they had at length arrived at a provisional understanding, the prospector made a sign of acquiescence.
"We'll let it go at that; but the thing will take time, and I'll never get the money. If you exercise your option, you'll sure pay it down to Seely?"
"Celia's his daughter," Drayton explained. "He has no one else. She's a waitress at the —— House." He named a hotel of no great standing in the city. "Comes home at nights, and looks after him as best she can."
Vane glanced round the room. It was evident that Celia's earnings were small; but he noticed several things which suggested that she had lavished loving care upon the sick man, probably at the cost of severe self-denial. This was what he would have expected, for he had spent most of his nine years in Canada among the people who toil the hardest for the least reward.
"Yes," he answered; "I'll promise that. But, as I pointed out, while we have agreed on the two payments, I reserve the right of deciding what share your daughter and Drayton are to have, within the limits sketched out. I can't fix it definitely until I've seen the timber—you'll have to trust me."
The prospector once more looked at him steadily, and then implied by a gesture that he was satisfied. He was not in a position to dictate terms, but his confidence had its effect on the man in whom he reposed it.
"There's another thing. You'll do all you can to find that spruce?"
"Yes," Vane promised.
The man fumbled under his pillow and produced a piece cut out from a map of the Province, with rough pencil notes on the back of it.
"It was on my last prospecting trip I found the spruce," he said. "I'd been looking round, and I figured I'd strike down to the coast over the range. The creeks were full up with snow-water, and as I was held up here and there before I could get across, provisions began to run short. Then I fell down a gulch and hurt my knee, and as I had to leave my tent and it rained most of the while, I lay in the wet at nights, half-fed, with my knee getting worse. By and by I fell sick; but I had to get out of the mountains, and I was pushing on for the straits when I struck the valley where the spruce is. After that, I got kind of muddled in the head, but I went down a long valley on an easy grade and struck some Siwash curing the last of the salmon. The trouble is, I was too sick to figure exactly where the small inlet they were camped by lies. They took me back with them to their rancherie—you could find that—and sailed me across to Comox. I came down on a steamboat, and the doctor told me I'd made my last journey."
Vane could sympathize. The narrative had been crudely matter-of-fact, but he had been out on the prospecting trail often enough to fill in the details the sick man omitted. He had slept in the rain, very scantily fed, and he could picture the starving man limping along in an agony of pain and exhaustion, with an injured knee, over boulders and broken rock and through dense tangles of underbrush strewed with mighty fallen logs.
"How far was the valley from the inlet?" he asked.
"I can't tell you. I think I was three days on the trail; but it might have been more. I was too sick to remember. Anyway, there was a creek you could run the logs down."
"Well, how far was the inlet from the rancherie?"
"I was in the canoe part of one night and some of the next day. I can't get it any clearer. We had a fair breeze. Guess thirty miles wouldn't be far out."
"That's something to go upon. How much does your daughter earn?"
It was an abrupt change of subject, but the man answered as Vane had expected. The girl's wages might maintain her economically, but it was difficult to see how she could provide for her sick father. The latter seemed to guess Vane's thoughts, for he spoke again.
"If I'd known I was done for when I was up in the bush, I wouldn't have pushed on quite so fast," he said with expressive simplicity.
Vane rose.
"If Drayton will come along with me, I'll send him back with a hundred dollars. It's part of the first payment. Your getting it now should make things a little easier for Celia."
"But you haven't located the spruce yet!"
"I'm going to locate it, if the thing's anyway possible." Vane shook hands with the man. "I expect to get off up the straits very shortly."
The prospector looked at him with relief and gratitude in his eyes.
"You're white—and I guess you'd be mighty hard to beat!"
When they reached the rutted street, which was bordered on one side by great fir stumps, Drayton glanced at Vane with open admiration.
"I'm glad I brought you across. You have a way of getting hold of people—making them believe in you. Hartley hasn't a word in writing, but he knows you mean to act square with him. Kitty felt the same thing—it was why she came down in the sloop with you."
Vane smiled, though there was a trace of embarrassment in his manner.
"Now that you mention it, I don't think Hartley was wise; and you were equally confiding. We have only arrived at a rather indefinite understanding about your share."
"We'll leave it at that. I haven't struck anybody else in this city who would hear about the thing. Anyway, I'd prefer a few shares in the concern, as mentioned, instead of money. If you get the thing on foot, I guess it will go."