He was lying in a sunny room one afternoon when two gentlemen were shown in. One was the caller with whom he had an interview in his office before the accident. They inquired about his progress with rather forced courtesy; and then one of them said:

"We looked in on the doctor who wrote to us about your injury before we came here, and he told us you were strong enough for a little quiet conversation. We haven't appointed another director yet."

"Then you had better do so," Herbert advised.

"You mean to stick to your withdrawal? You're the only person who can pull the company out of its difficulties."

"Has it got into any difficulties?" Herbert inquired. "You see, I've been compelled to give orders for all correspondence to be dealt with at the London office, and I'm advised not to read the financial papers or anything that might have a disturbing effect."

The man who had not yet spoken betrayed some impatience.

"We're up to the eyes in trouble, as you must have guessed. Have you asked yourself what the body of the shareholders are likely to think?"

"It's fairly obvious. They'll consider it a misfortune that I was knocked over shortly before a critical time; possibly they'll attribute everything unsatisfactory in the company's affairs to my not being in charge."

One of the visitors glanced meaningly at his companion. There was truth in what Lansing said. The angry shareholders would not discriminate carefully; they would blame the present directors, who would have to face a serious loss while Lansing had made a profit. It was a galling situation; and what made it worse was that Lansing's expression hinted that he found it somewhat humorous.

"The fact that you sold out so soon before the fall will have its significance," said the first man. "The thing has a suspicious look."

"I must risk a certain amount of misconception," Herbert replied languidly. "I may as well point out that I still hold the shares required as a director's qualification, which is all it was necessary for me to do. Was it your intention to keep the stock you hold permanently?"

They could not answer him, and he smiled.

"As a matter of fact, we all intended to sell off a good portion as soon as the premium justified it; the only difference of opinion was about the point it must reach, and that, of course, was a matter of temperament. Well, I was lucky enough to get rid of part of my stock at a profit; and there was nothing to prevent your doing the same. Instead of that, you held on until the drop came; it was an imprudence for which you can't blame me."

"Our complaint is that you foresaw the fall and never said a word."

"Granted. Why didn't you foresee it? You had the right of access to all the information in my hands; you could inspect accounts in the London office; I suppose you read the financial papers. It would have been presumptuous if I'd recommended you to sell, and my forecast might have proved incorrect. In that case you would have blamed me for losing your money."

This was incontestable. Though they knew he had betrayed them, Lansing's position was too strong to be assailed.

"You might have mentioned that you contemplated retiring from the board," one remarked. "Then we would have known what to expect."

"A little reflection will show the futility of your suggestion. How could I contemplate being run over by a motor-car?"

"Well," said the second man in a grim tone, "you can't deny the accident was in some respects a fortunate one for you."

"I'm doubtful whether you would have appreciated it, in my place. But you don't seem to realize that I'm withdrawing from the board because I'm incapacitated for the duties."

Then the nurse, to whom Herbert had given a hint, came in; and he made a sign of resignation, quite as though overpowered by regret.

"I'm sorry I'm not allowed to talk very much yet. Will you have a cigar and some refreshment before you leave?"

His visitors rose, and one of them turned to him with a curious expression.

"No, thanks," he said pointedly. "Considering everything, I don't think we'll give you the trouble."

With a few conventional words they withdrew, and Herbert smiled at the nurse.

"I believe Dr. Ballin was most concerned about the injury to my nerves," he said. "Have you noticed anything wrong with them?"

"Not lately. They seem to be in a normal state."

"That," said Herbert, "is my own opinion. You wouldn't imagine that I had just finished a rather trying interview?"

"No; you look more amused than upset."

"There was something humorous in the situation; that's often the case when you see greedy people wasting effort and ingenuity. Perhaps you heard my visitors expressing their anxiety about my health, though I've a suspicion that they felt more like wishing the car had made an end of me."

The nurse laughed and told him that he had better rest; and Herbert lay back upon the cushions she arranged, with calm content.

During the evening, Sylvia entered the room, dressed a little more carefully than usual, and Herbert glanced at her with appreciation.

"You look charming, though that's your normal state," he said. "Where are you going?"

"With Muriel, to dine with the Wests; have you forgotten? But I came in because Muriel told me you had a letter from George by the last post."

"So you're still interested in his doings," Herbert rejoined.

"Of course. Does that surprise you?"

"I was beginning to think there was some risk of your forgetting him, which, perhaps, wouldn't be altogether unnatural. He's a long way off, which has often its effect, and there's no denying the fact that in many respects you and he are different."

"Doesn't the same thing apply to you and Muriel? Everybody knows you get on excellently in spite of it."

Herbert laughed. He was aware that his friends had wondered why he had married Muriel, and suspected that some of them believed her money had tempted him. Nevertheless, he made her an affectionate as well as a considerate husband. In business matters he practised the easy morality of a hungry beast of prey, but he had his virtues.

"Yes," he said, "that's true. Do you find it encouraging?"

Sylvia had felt a little angry, though she had known that it was seldom wise to provoke her host.

Without waiting for her answer he continued, half seriously: "There's often one person who thinks better of us than we deserve, and I dare say I'm fortunate in that respect. In such a case, one feels it an obligation not to abuse that person's confidence."

A slight flush crept into Sylvia's face. George believed in her and she was very shabbily rewarding his trust.

"I'm surprised to hear you moralizing. It's not a habit of yours," she remarked.

"No," said Herbert, pointedly; "though it may now and then make one feel a little uncomfortable, it seldom does much good. But we were talking about George. He tells me that winter's beginning unusually soon; they've had what he calls a severe cold snap and the prairie's deep with snow. He bought some more stock and young horses as an offset to the bad harvest, and he's doubtful whether he has put up hay enough. West and he are busy hauling stove-wood home from a bluff; and he has had a little trouble with some shady characters as a result of his taking part in a temperance campaign. I think that's all he has to say."

Sylvia broke into half-incredulous merriment.

"It's hard to imagine George as a temperance reformer. Think of him, making speeches!"

"Speeches aren't much in George's line," Herbert admitted. "Still, in one way, I wasn't greatly astonished at the news. He's just the man to be drawn into difficulties he might avoid, provided that somebody could convince him the thing needed doing."

"Then you think he has been convinced?"

"I can hardly imagine George's setting out on a work of the kind he mentioned without some persuasion," said Herbert with a smile. "The subject's not one he ever took much interest in, and he's by no means original."

Sylvia agreed with him, but she was silent a few moments, reclining in an easy chair before the cheerful fire, while she glanced round the room. It was comfortably furnished, warm, and brightly lighted; a strong contrast to the lonely Canadian homestead to which her thoughts wandered. She could recall the unpolished stove, filling the place with its curious, unpleasant smell, and the icy draughts that eddied about it. She could imagine the swish of driving snow about the quivering wooden building when the dreaded blizzards raged; the strange, oppressive silence when the prairie lay still in the grip of the Arctic frost; and George coming in with half-frozen limbs and snow-dust on his furs, to spend the dreary evening in trying to keep warm. The picture her memory painted was vivid and it had a disturbing effect. It was in her service that the man was toiling in western Canada.

"Well," she said, rising with some abruptness, "it's time we got off. I'd better see if Muriel is ready."



CHAPTER XVIII

BLAND MAKES A SACRIFICE

Sylvia was sitting by the hearth in Ethel West's drawing-room, her neatly shod feet on the fender, her low chair on the fleecy rug, and she made a very dainty and attractive picture. She felt the cold and hated discomfort of any kind, though it was characteristic of her that she generally succeeded in avoiding it. Ethel sat near by, watching her with calmly curious eyes, for Sylvia was looking pensive. Mrs. Lansing was talking to Stephen West on the opposite side of the large room.

"How is Edgar getting on?" Sylvia asked. "I suppose you hear from him now and then."

Ethel guessed where the question led and responded with blunt directness.

"Doesn't George write to you?"

"Not often. Herbert has just got a letter, but there was very little information in it; George is not a brilliant correspondent. I thought Edgar might have written by the same mail."

"As it happens, he did," said Ethel. "He describes the cold as fierce, and gives some interesting details of his sensations when the warmth first comes back to his half-frozen hands or limbs; then he adds a vivid account of a blizzard that George and he nearly got lost in."

"Things of that kind make an impression on a new-comer," Sylvia languidly remarked. "One gets used to them after a while. Did he say anything else?"

"There was an enthusiastic description of a girl he has met; he declares she's a paragon. This, of course, is nothing new, but it's a little astonishing that he doesn't seem to contemplate making love to her in his usual haphazard manner. She seems to have inspired him with genuine respect."

"I can't think of any girl who's likely to do so."

"He gives her name—Flora Grant."

Sylvia betrayed some interest.

"I knew her—I suppose she is a little less impossible than the rest. But go on."

"One gathers that George is having an anxious time; Edgar goes into some obscure details about crops and cattle-raising. Then he hints at some exciting adventures they have had as a result of supporting a body that's trying to close the hotels."

This was what Sylvia had been leading up to. She agreed with Herbert that it was most unlikely George would take any part in such proceedings without some prompting, and she was curious to learn who had influenced him.

"There was a word or two in Herbert's letter to the same effect," she said. "The thing strikes one as amusing. George, of course, does not explain why he joined these people."

A smile of rather malicious satisfaction crept into Ethel's eyes. "According to Edgar, it was because his neighbors, the Grants, urged it. The father of the girl he mentioned seems to be a leader in the movement."

Sylvia carefully suppressed any sign of the annoyance she felt. It was, of course, impossible that George should be seriously attracted by Flora, but his action implied that he and the Grants must be good friends. No doubt, he met the girl every now and then, and they had much in common. Sylvia did not mean to marry George; but it was pleasant to feel that she could count on his devotion, and she resented the idea of his falling under the influence of anybody else. She had never thought of Flora as dangerous—George was so steadfast—but she now realized that there might, perhaps, be some slight risk. A girl situated as Flora was would, no doubt, make the most of her opportunities. Sylvia grew somewhat angry; she felt she was being badly treated.

"After all," she said calmly, "I suppose there's no reason why George shouldn't set up as a reformer if it pleases him. It must, however, be rather a novelty for your brother."

Ethel laughed.

"I believe it's the excitement that has tempted him, Still, if George is taking any active part in the matter, Edgar will probably find it more than a light diversion." Then she changed the subject. "Did I tell you that we expect Captain Bland to-night?"

Sylvia started slightly. She was aware that Ethel took what could best be described as an unsympathetic interest in her affairs, but the sudden reference to Bland threw her off her guard.

"No," she said. "Though you have met him, I didn't think you knew him well."

"I believe it's chiefly a business visit. Stephen, you know, has some reputation as a commercial lawyer, and Bland couldn't arrange to see him in town. Anyway, he should be here soon."

Bland arrived half an hour later, but was unable to do more than shake hands with Sylvia before West took him away to another room. It was some time before they returned; and then West kept the party engaged in general conversation until it broke up.

"I'll walk down the road with you," he said to Mrs. Lansing, and afterward turned to Bland. "How are you going to get back?"

Bland said that the man who had driven him from the station was waiting in the neighboring village, and when they left the house he walked on with Sylvia, leaving Mrs. Lansing and West to follow. It was a clear night, with a chill of frost in the air. A bright half-moon hung above the shadowy hills, and the higher boughs of the bare trees cut in sharp tracery against the sky. Dead leaves lay thick upon the road and here and there a belt of mist trailed across a meadow. Sylvia, however, did not respond when her companion said something about the charm of the walk.

"Why didn't you send me word you were coming?" she asked.

"I didn't know until this morning, when I got a note from West, and I must be back in time for tomorrow's parade. Besides, you told me at the junction that I was not to be allowed to meet you again for some time."

Sylvia smiled at him.

"Haven't you found out that you needn't take everything I say too literally?"

Bland stopped, pressing the hand on his arm.

"Does that apply to all you said on the evening when we sat outside the inn?"

"No," answered Sylvia firmly. "It does not; please understand that. I must stick to what I told you then." She paused, and they heard the soft fall of approaching feet before she resumed with a laugh: "Go on, if you don't want the others to think we are waiting for them."

Bland obeyed, a little soothed, though he saw she was not yet ready to allow a renewal of his pleading. Sylvia had obviously meant that she wished to be left alone with him.

"Why did you call on Stephen West?" she asked, presently.

"I'd meant to tell you. But, first of all, is Lansing still connected with the rubber company? West didn't seem very well informed upon the point."

"Neither am I," replied Sylvia thoughtfully. "I only know he hasn't the large interest in it that he had."

"Then I'll have to explain, because I don't know what to do. Lansing gave me a tip to buy some shares, and when some friends said I'd got a good thing, I went to him again. I must say he was pretty guarded, but I got a hint and acted on it, with the result that I have dropped a good deal of money. This," he added deprecatingly, "is not the kind of thing I should talk to you about, but I was told that Lansing couldn't receive any callers, and you'll see why you should know."

"I'm beginning to understand."

"Well," said Bland, "shortly after Lansing's accident, I wrote to the secretary, asking some questions, and he doesn't seem to have been cautious enough in his answer—I have it here. There has been trouble about the company, and I attended a meeting of some disgusted people who had put their money into it. They think they might get part of it back by attacking the promoters, and I'm told that my letter would help them materially."

"Do you want to help them?"

"In a way, it's natural," said Bland with signs of warmth. "I don't see why those fellows should be allowed to get off after tricking people out of the money they've painfully earned."

"How much money have you ever earned?"

Bland laughed.

"You have me there; I haven't been able to buy shares out of my pay. But I made a pot by taking long chances when I backed an outside horse. It comes to much the same thing."

"I don't think it does," said Sylvia, with a smile. "But it strikes me that your explanation isn't quite complete."

"I went to West, instead of to another lawyer, because I thought he would be acquainted with Lansing's present position; but, while he agreed that the letter might be valuable to the objectors, he couldn't help me. The end of it is that I don't want to do anything that might hurt Lansing."

Sylvia reflected. She hardly thought his loss would seriously embarrass Bland; she owed Herbert something and might need his aid, and she did not wish any discredit to be cast upon a connection of hers.

"Well," she said, "I believe Herbert is still to some extent connected with the company; he can hardly have withdrawn altogether. Anyway, he had a large interest in it, and I think its management was in his hands. He might suffer, so to speak, retrospectively."

"Yes," said Bland, "that didn't strike me. You're right; there's only one course open." He took a paper from his pocket and handed it to her. "Give that to Lansing, and tell him he may do what he thinks fit with it."

"You're very generous," said Sylvia, coloring as she took the letter.

"I'm afraid I've behaved badly in not keeping the thing from you; but you see how I was situated, and you'll have to forgive me."

"That isn't difficult," Sylvia told him.

They walked on in silence for a while; and then Bland looked around at her.

"There's a thing I must mention. I've had a hint to ask for a certain post abroad. It is not a very desirable one in some respects, but the pay's pretty good, and it would bring the man who took it under the notice of people who arrange the better Government appointments. I should have to stay out at least two years."

Sylvia was startled, and annoyed. Now that the man owned her sway, she did not mean to accede to his wishes too readily. Some obscure reason made her shrink from definitely binding herself to him, but his intimation had forced on something of the nature of a crisis.

"Do you wish to go?" she asked.

"No," he said hotly; "you know that."

"Then," said Sylvia softly, "I think you had better stay at home."

He stopped again and faced her.

"You must tell me what you mean!"

"It ought to be clear," she murmured, "Don't you think I should miss you?"

With restrained quietness he laid his hand on her shoulder.

"You must listen for a minute, Sylvia. Up to the present, I've been passed over by the authorities; but now I've been given my chance. If I can hammer the raw native levies into shape and keep order along a disturbed frontier, it will lead to something better. Now, I'm neither a military genius nor altogether a careless idler—I believe I can do this work; but, coming rather late, it has less attraction for me. Well, I would let the chance slip, for one reason only; but if I'm to go on continually repressing myself and only allowed to see you at long intervals, I might as well go away. You must clearly understand on what terms I remain."

She made a little appealing gesture.

"Yes," she said; "but you must wait and not press me too hard. I am so fenced in by conventions; so many people's susceptibilities have to be considered. I haven't a girl's liberty."

Bland supposed this was as far as she ventured in allusion to her widowed state; but, stirred as he was by her implied submission, it struck him as significant that she should so clearly recognize the restrictions conventionality imposed on her.

"I think," he returned, "the two people who deserve most consideration are you and myself."

"Ah!" said Sylvia, "you deserve it most. You have been very forbearing; you have done all I asked. That is why I know you will bear with a little delay, when it's needful."

He made a sign of reluctant assent; and then, to his annoyance, two figures emerged from the shadow of the trees not far away. There was nothing to do except to move on, but he thrilled at the slight, grateful pressure of Sylvia's hand upon his arm.

"My dear," he said, "I wish most devoutly that West or Mrs. Lansing had been lame."

Sylvia broke into a ripple of laughter, which somehow seemed to draw them closer. At Herbert's gate they separated, and Bland walked on in an exultant mood which was broken by fits of thoughtfulness. Sylvia had tacitly pledged herself to him, but he was still her unacknowledged lover and the position was irksome. Then he remembered her collectedness, which had been rather marked, but he had learned that emotion is more frequently concealed than forcibly expressed. Moreover, he had never imagined that Sylvia was wholly free from faults; he suspected that there was a vein of calculating coldness in her, though it caused him no concern. Bland was a man of experience who had acquired a good-humored toleration with the knowledge that one must not expect too much from human nature.

While Bland was being driven to the station, Sylvia entered the room where Herbert lay, and handed him the letter.

"Captain Bland came in during the evening to see Stephen and sent you this," she said. "He told me you were to do what you thought fit with it."

Herbert perused the letter, and then reaching out with some difficulty, flung it into the fire.

"I've taken him at his word," he said. "Have you read the thing?"

"No; I fear the details would have puzzled me; but I understand its general import. How was it your secretary was so careless?"

Herbert smiled.

"The man's smart enough, as a rule; but we all have our weak moments. This, however, is not the kind of thing that's likely to lead to his advancement." He lay quiet for a moment or two; and then went on: "I'm grateful to you. Had you much trouble in persuading Bland to let you have the letter?"

"No; he offered it voluntarily."

"Then the man must have been desperately anxious to please you. It looks as if his condition were getting serious."

"I resent coarseness," exclaimed Sylvia.

Herbert laughed.

"Oh," he said, "you and I can face the truth. As West's a lawyer, Bland's visit to him is, of course, significant; the man knew that letter might have been worth something in hard cash to him, as well as affording him the satisfaction of making things hot for the directors of the company, among whom I was included. He would hardly have parted with it unless he had a strong inducement."

"His motives don't concern you," retorted Sylvia.

"You ought to appreciate his action."

"I appreciate it as sincerely as I do yours, because you must have shown that you didn't want him to use the letter, though I'm inclined to think your motives were rather mixed; one could scarcely expect them all to be purely benevolent."

Sylvia smiled. He was keen-witted and she found something amusing in the ironical good-humor which often characterized him.

"Anyhow," he continued, "you're a staunch and capable ally, and as that gives you a claim on me, you won't find me reluctant to do my part whenever the time comes."

Then Mrs. Lansing came in, and on the whole Sylvia was glad of the interruption. Herbert's remarks were now and then unpleasantly suggestive. He had called her his ally, but she felt more like his accomplice, which was much less flattering.



CHAPTER XIX

AN OPPOSITION MOVE

It was a wet and chilly night, and Singleton sat in an easy chair beside the hearth in his city quarters with an old pipe in his hand. The room was shabbily furnished, the hearthrug had a hole in it, the carpet was threadbare, and Singleton's attire harmonized with his surroundings, though the box of cigars and one or two bottles and siphons on the table suggested that he expected visitors. The loose Tuxedo jacket he had bought in America was marked by discolored patches; his carpet slippers were dilapidated. His means, though long restricted, would have warranted better accommodations; but his clothes were comfortable and he did not think it worth while to put on anything smarter. There was a vein of rather bitter pride in the man, and he would not, out of deference to any other person's views, alter conditions that suited him.

A notebook lay beside him and several bulky treatises on botany were scattered about, but he had ceased work and was thinking. After the shadow and silence of the tropical bush, to which he was most accustomed, the rattle of the traffic in the wet street below was stimulating; but his reflections were not pleasant. He had waited patiently for another invitation to Lansing's house, which had not arrived, and a day or two ago he had met Sylvia Marston, upon whom his mind had steadily dwelt, in a busy street. She had bowed to him courteously, but she had made it clear that she did not expect him to stop and speak. It had been a bitter moment to Singleton, but he had calmly faced the truth. He had served his purpose, and he had been dropped. Now, however, a letter from one of the people he was expecting indicated that he might again be drawn into the rubber-exploiting scheme.

The two gentlemen who had called on Herbert were shown in presently.

"It was I who wrote you," the first of them said; "this is my colleague, Mr. Nevis."

Singleton bowed.

"Will you take that chair, Mr. Jackson?" He turned to the other man. "I think you had better have this one; it's comparatively sound."

He was aware that they were looking about his apartment curiously, and no doubt inferring something from its condition; but this was of no consequence. He had learned his value and meant to insist on it, without the assistance of any signs of prosperity.

"I couldn't get up to town, as you suggested," he resumed when they were seated. "I've been rather busy of late."

"That's generally the case with us," Jackson said pointedly.

He was a thin man, very neatly and quietly dressed, with a solemn face and an air of importance. Nevis was stouter and more florid, with a brisker manner, but the stamp of the city was plainly set on both.

"Well," said Singleton, "I'm at your service, now you're here. The cigars are nearest you, Mr. Nevis, and I can recommend the contents of the smaller bottle. It's a Southern speciality and rather difficult to get in England."

Nevis hesitated. He thought it better that the interview should be conducted on strictly business lines, while to accept the proffered hospitality would tend to place him and the man he wished to deal with on a footing of social equality. But it was desirable not to offend Singleton, and he lighted a cigar.

"To begin with, I must ask if you are still in any way connected with Mr. Lansing?" he said.

"No," answered Singleton with some grimness. "You can take it for granted that he has done with me."

"That clears the ground. We have been considering the report you wrote for him. In our opinion, it was, while not encouraging, hardly sufficient to warrant his abandoning the project, in which, as you have been told, we were associated with him."

"He may have had other motives," Singleton suggested.

Nevis nodded gravely, as if in appreciation of his keenness.

"That," he said, "is what occurred to us. But what is your idea of the scheme?"

"It's clearly stated in the report."

Jackson made a sign of impatience.

"We'll leave the report out and come to the point. Can the rubber, which you say is really to be found, be collected and brought down to the coast without incurring a prohibitive expense?"

"Yes," said Singleton. "But you must understand me. The methods generally adopted in such cases would be bound to fail. You would require an overseer with rather exceptional technical knowledge, who must, besides this, be quite free from the usual prejudices on the native question. They would, no doubt, be a little difficult to avoid, since at first he would have to put up with a few attempts upon his life; but, if he could combine resolution and strict justice with a conciliatory attitude, the attempt would cease, and I think he could earn you a fair return on a moderate outlay."

Jackson laughed.

"So far as my experience goes, such men are scarce. But I'd better say that we had you in mind when we made this visit. Do you think you could do anything, if we sent you out?"

"Yes," said Singleton quietly; "I believe I could make the venture pay. Whether I'd think it worth while is another matter."

"Then," Nevis interposed, "it's simply a question of terms?"

"Oh, no. You may be surprised to hear that payment is not the first consideration; though it's true. I'm interested in certain investigations which can be carried out only in the tropics. However, you'd better make your offer."

Nevis did so, and Singleton pondered for a few moments.

"The remuneration might suffice, provided that I was given a percentage on the product and one or two special allowances; but before going any farther I must understand your intentions. I'm a botanist, and have no wish to be made use of merely for the purpose of furthering some stock-jobbing scheme. Do you really want this venture put upon a satisfactory working footing?"

"I'll explain," said Nevis. "The fact is, Lansing let us in rather badly. We spent a good deal of money over this concession, and we're anxious to get it back. Since we can't float the thing on the market at present, we have formed a small private syndicate to develop the property, though we may sell out in a year or two if you can make the undertaking commercially successful. I think you could count on the purchasers' continuing operations."

"Have you considered what Lansing's attitude may be?"

"It won't matter. He has gone out of the business, convinced that the thing's no good; he cleared off most of his rubber shares, for a similar reason. This raises another point—the original company's possessions lie in the same region, though ruled by another state, and things are going badly there. If you could get across and see what could be done, we would pay an extra fee."

Singleton lighted a cigar and leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful expression, and for a minute or two they left him alone. They were keen business men, but they knew that their usual methods would not serve them with this shabbily-dressed, self-possessed botanist.

"Well," he said at length, "your suggestion rather appeals to me, but there's the difficulty that another matter claims my attention. Though it isn't strictly in my line, I've been asked to go out to Canada and assist in the production of a variety of wheat that will ripen quickly; in fact, I was looking up some information bearing on the matter when you came in. It's a remarkably interesting subject."

They were clever enough to see that this was not an attempt to enhance the value of his services; the man was obviously a botanical enthusiast, and Nevis showed signs of attention. He had once or twice thought that something might be made out of Canadian land companies.

"One could imagine that," he said. "I understand that it's a matter of high importance."

"The development of the whole northern portion of the prairie country depends on the success of the experiments that are being made," Singleton went on. "Their summers are hot but short; if they can get a grain that ripens early, they can cultivate vast stretches of land that are now, from economic reasons, uninhabitable, and it would make farming a more prosperous business in other tracts. Crops growing in the favored parts are occasionally frozen. It's a coincidence that a day or two ago I got a letter inquiring about that kind of wheat from a friend in Canada who is, as it happens, farming with a cousin of Lansing's." Then he laughed. "All this, however, has nothing to do with the object of your visit. Give me a few more minutes to think it over."

There was silence except for the rattle of wheels outside while he smoked half a cigar; then he turned to his companions.

"I'll go out and undertake your work. I believe you're acting wisely, and that Lansing will be sorry after a while that he threw away his interest in the scheme."

They discussed the details of the project and then the business men went away, satisfied. Shortly afterward Singleton took a letter out of a paper rack, and when he had read it he leaned back in his chair, lost in pleasant recollections. Some years earlier, he had by chance fallen in with a lad named West when fishing among the Scottish hills. The young man's sister and elder brother were staying with him at the remote hotel in which Singleton had quarters, and somewhat to his astonishment they soon made friends with him.

Poverty had made him reserved; he knew that he was a little awkward and unpolished, but the Wests had not attempted to patronize him. Their cordiality set him at his ease; he liked the careless, good-humored lad; Ethel West, grave-eyed, direct, and candid, made a strong impression, and he had been drawn to the quiet lawyer who was much older than either. They spent delightful days together on the lake and among the hills; Singleton told them something about his studies and ambitions, and in the evenings they persuaded him to sing. Ethel was a musician and Singleton sang well. On leaving they had invited him to visit them; but, partly from diffidence, Singleton had not gone, though he knew these were not the people who took a man up when he could be of service and afterward dropped him.

Now he had received a letter from Edgar West, saying that he was farming in western Canada and inquiring if Singleton could tell him anything about the drought-resisting and quick-ripening properties of certain varieties of wheat. The botanist was glad to place his knowledge at his friend's disposal, and, taking up pen and paper, he spent an hour on a treatise on the subject, which was to save Lansing expense and trouble, and bring Singleton further communications from Edgar. Then he smoked another pipe and went to bed; and a fortnight later he sailed for the tropics.

Shortly after he had gone, Herbert heard of his departure, and the letter containing the news arrived on a cheerless afternoon during which his doctor had visited him. After the doctor left, Herbert entered the room where his wife and Sylvia were, and took his place in an easy chair by a window. Outside, the lawn was covered with half-melted snow and the trees raised naked, dripping branches above the drooping shrubs. Farther back the hedgerows ran somberly across the white fields, and in the distance the hills loomed, desolate and gray, against a leaden sky.

"Ballin says I'd better take it easy for some time yet," Herbert informed his wife. "In fact, he recommends a trip abroad; Algiers or Egypt, for preference." He indicated the dreary prospect outside the window. "Though he didn't actually insist on my going, the idea's attractive."

"Could you leave your business?" Mrs. Lansing inquired.

Herbert smiled.

"Yes; I think so. I was doing pretty well when I got run over, and things have since slackened down. My manager can look after them while I am away."

This was correct, so far as it went; but he had another reason for deciding not to resume operations for a while. He suspected that his recent conduct had excited distrust and indignation in certain quarters, but this would, no doubt, blow over before his return. People forgot, and he could avoid those whose confidence in him had proved expensive,

"If that's the case, we may as well get off as soon as it can be arranged," said Mrs. Lansing. She turned to Sylvia. "Of course, you will come with us."

Sylvia hesitated. She believed her influence over Bland would not weaken much in her absence; but, after all, it was wiser to run no risk. Moreover, she would, to some extent, feel her separation from the man.

"I really don't know what I ought to do," she answered. "I might be a restraint upon you—you can't want me always at hand; and I could spend a month or two with Dorothy. She has several times told me to come."

"You would be better with us," Mrs. Lansing rejoined with firmness; and Sylvia suspected her of a wish to prevent her enjoying Bland's society.

"I'll think it over," she said.

After they had discussed the projected journey, Mrs. Lansing withdrew on some domestic errand, and Herbert turned to Sylvia.

"I needn't point out that you'll be no trouble to us, but perhaps I'd better mention that I had a letter from George this post. As there's very little to be done until the spring, he thinks of coming over. I don't know how far that may affect your decision."

Sylvia was a little startled, but she reflected rapidly. The house of the relative she had thought of visiting would be open to George, as would be one or two others in which she might stay a while. It was most undesirable that he should encounter Bland, which would be likely to happen. Then it struck her that Herbert might derive as little satisfaction from his cousin's visit as it would afford her.

"Have you succeeded in selling George's shares yet?" she asked, and though this was, on the face of it, an abrupt change of subject, she thought Herbert would follow the sequence of ideas.

"No," he answered, with a smile of comprehension. "It was too late when I was able to attend to things; they have dropped to such a price that I'll have to keep them. I'm afraid it will be a blow to George, and he's having trouble enough already with your farm; but, luckily, some other shares I bought on his account show signs of a marked improvement before long."

Sylvia inferred from this that he had not informed his cousin of the state of his affairs, and did not wish to see him until the improvement mentioned, or some other favorable development, should mitigate the shock of discovering what use Herbert had made of his powers. It was clear that it rested with her to decide whether George made the visit or not, because if she went to Egypt he would remain in Canada. But she was not quite ready to give her companion an answer.

"Did I tell you that I met Singleton a little while ago?" she said. "I think he wished to speak, but I merely bowed. I was in a hurry, for one thing."

"It's the first I've heard of it, but you did quite right. Since he was here, one or two of the other directors who tried to give me some trouble have got hold of him. They have sent him out to see what can be done with the rubber property."

"Was that worth while?"

"I shouldn't think so. It strikes me they're wasting their money."

This was Herbert's firm belief, but his judgment while generally accurate, had, in this instance, proved defective. He had failed properly to estimate Singleton's capabilities. It was, however, obvious to Sylvia that he had had no part in the undertaking, and had abandoned his rubber schemes, which implied that George's loss would be serious. There was no doubt that it would suit both Herbert and herself better if George did not come back too soon.

"Well," she said, "that is not a matter of any consequence to me. After all, I think I'll go south with you and Muriel."

Herbert had foreseen this decision.

"It's the most suitable arrangement," he responded. "When I write, I'll mention it to George."

Sylvia went out a little later with a sense of guilt; she felt that in removing the strongest inducement for George's visit she had betrayed him. She was sorry for George, but she could not allow any consideration for him to interfere with her ambitions. Then she resolutely drove these thoughts away. The matter could be looked at in a more pleasant light, and there were several good reasons for the course she had adopted.

Entering the library, she carefully wrote a little note to Captain Bland, and then went in search of Mrs. Lansing.

"I think I'll go over to Susan's for the week-end," she announced. "I promised her another visit, and now I can explain that I'm going away with you."

Mrs. Lansing made no objection, and three or four days afterward Sylvia met Bland at Mrs. Kettering's house. He arrived after her, and as there were other guests, she had to wait a little while before she could get a word with him alone. She was standing in the big hall, which was unoccupied, rather late in the evening, when he came toward her.

"I thought I should never escape from Kettering; but he's safe for a while, talking guns in the smoking-room," he said.

Sylvia thought that they would be safe from interruption for a few minutes, which would serve her purpose.

"So you have managed to get here," she said.

"Had you any doubt of my succeeding?" Bland asked reproachfully. "Kettering once gave me a standing invitation, and, as it happens, there's a famous horse dealer in this neighborhood with whom I've had some business. That and the few Sunday trains formed a good excuse. I, however, don't mind in the least if Mrs. Kettering attaches any significance to the visit."

Sylvia did not wish to arouse the suspicions of her hostess, but she smiled.

"I expected you, and I'm glad you came," she said.

"That's very nice to hear."

"Don't take too much for granted. Still, I thought I'd like to see you, because I'm going to Egypt with Muriel for some time. Indeed, I shall not be back until the spring."

The man displayed dismayed surprise, and Sylvia waited for his answer with some eagerness. She did not wish to enter into a formal engagement—it was a little too early to make an announcement yet—but she thought it wise to bind him in some degree before she left.

"Until the spring?" he broke out. "You expect me to let you go?"

"You must," said Sylvia firmly, and added in a softer voice, "I'm rather sorry."

He saw that he could not shake her decision.

"Then we must have a clear understanding," he rejoined hotly. "You know I want you—when is this waiting to end? Tell me now, and let me tell all who care to hear, that you belong to me."

Sylvia made a gesture of protest and coquettishly looked down.

"You must still have patience," she murmured; "the time will soon pass."

"And then?" he asked with eagerness.

She glanced up at him shyly.

"If you will ask me again when I come back, I will give you your answer."

She left him no reason for doubting what that answer would be; and, stretching out his arms, he drew her strongly to him. In a minute or two, however, Sylvia insisted on his returning to his host, and soon afterward Mrs. Kettering came in to look for her.



CHAPTER XX

A BLIZZARD

A bitter wind searched the poplar bluff where George and his hired man, Grierson, were cutting fuel. Except in the river valleys, trees of any size are scarce on the prairie, but the slender trunks and leafless branches were closely massed and afforded a little shelter. Outside on the open waste, the cold was almost too severe to face, and George once or twice glanced anxiously across the snowy levels, looking for some sign of Edgar, who should have joined them with the team and sledge. It was, however, difficult to see far, because a gray dimness narrowed in the horizon. George stood, dressed in snow-flecked furs, in the center of a little clearing strewn with rows of fallen trunks from which he was hewing off the branches. The work was hard; his whole body strained with each stroke of the heavy ax, but it failed to keep him warm, and the wind was growing more bitter with the approach of night.

"I don't know what can be keeping West," he said after a while. "We haven't seen the mail-carrier either, and he's two hours late; but he must have had a heavy trail all the way from the settlement. I expect he'll cut out our place and make straight for Grant's. We'll have snow before long."

There was an empty shack not far away where, by George's consent, the mail-carrier left letters when bad weather made it desirable to shorten his round.

Grierson nodded as he glanced about. The stretch of desolate white prairie had contracted since he had last noticed it, the surrounding dimness was creeping nearer in, and the ranks of poplar trunks were losing their sharpness of form. Now that the men had ceased chopping, they could hear the eerie moaning of the wind and the sharp patter of icy snow-dust among the withered brush.

"It will take him all his time to fetch Grant's; I wish Mr. West would come before it gets dark," Grierson said with a shiver, and fell to work again.

Several minutes passed. George was thinking more about the mail-carrier's movements than about Edgar's. The English letters should have arrived, and he was anxiously wondering if there were any for him. Then, as he stopped for breath, a dim moving blur grew out of the prairie, and he flung down his ax.

"Here's West; we'll have light enough to put up the load," he said.

A little later Edgar led two powerful horses up the narrow trail, and for a while the men worked hard, stacking the logs upon the sledge. Then they set off at the best pace the team could make, and the cold struck through them when they left the bluff.

"Stinging, isn't it?" Edgar remarked. "I couldn't get over earlier; Flett turned up, half frozen, and he kept me. Seems to have some business in this neighborhood, though he didn't say what it is."

George, walking through the snow to leeward of the loaded sledge, where it was a little warmer, betrayed no interest in the news. Temperance reform was languishing at Sage Butte and its leaders had received a severe rebuff from the authorities. The police, who had arrested an Indian suspected of conveying liquor to the reservation, had been no more successful, for the man had been promptly acquitted. They had afterward been kept busy investigating the matter of the shooting of George's bull, which had recovered; but they had found no clue to the offender, and nothing of importance had happened for some time.

It had grown dark and the wind was rapidly increasing. Powdery snow drove along before it, obscuring the men's sight and lashing their tingling faces. At times the icy white haze whirled about them so thick that they could scarcely see the blurred dark shape of the sledge, but as they had hauled a good many loads of stovewood home, the trail was plainly marked. It would be difficult to lose it unless deep snow fell. With lowered heads and fur caps pulled well down, they plodded on, until at length George stopped where the shadowy mass of a bluff loomed up close in front of them.

"I'll leave you here and make for the shack," he said. "I want to see if there are any letters."

"It's far too risky," Edgar pointed out. "You'll get lost as soon as you leave the beaten trail."

"I'll have the bluff for a guide, and it isn't far from the end of it to the small ravine. After that I shouldn't have much trouble in striking the fallow."

"It's doubtful," Edgar persisted. "Let the letters wait until to-morrow."

"No," said George, resolutely. "I've waited a week already; the mail is late. Besides, we'll have worse snow before morning."

Seeing that he had made up his mind, Edgar raised no more objections, and in another few moments George disappeared into a haze of driving snow. When he left the trail he found walking more difficult than he had expected, but though it was hard to see beyond a few yards, he had the bluff to guide him and he kept along the edge of it until the trees vanished suddenly. Then he stopped, buffeted by the wind, to gather breath and fix clearly in his mind the salient features of the open space that he must cross.

If he could walk straight for half a mile, he would strike a small hollow and by following it he would reach a tract of cultivated ground. This, he thought, should be marked by the absence of the taller clumps of grass and the short willow scrub which here and there broke through the snow. There would then be a stretch of about two hundred acres to cross before he found the little shack, whose owner had gone away to work on the railroad during the winter. He expected to have some trouble in reaching it, but he must get the letters, and he set off again, breaking through the snow-crust in places, and trying to estimate the time he took.

A quarter of an hour passed and, as there was no sign of the ravine, he began to wonder whether he had deviated much from his chosen line. In another few minutes he was getting anxious; and then suddenly he plunged knee-deep into yielding snow. It got deeper at the next step and he knew that he had reached the shallow depression, which had been almost filled up by the drifts. He must cross it, and the effort this entailed left him gasping when he stopped again on the farther side.

It was still possible to retrace his steps, because he could hardly fail to strike the bluff he had left, but there was no doubt that to go on would be perilous. If he missed the shack, he might wander about the prairie until he sank down, exhausted; and after a day of fatiguing labor he knew that he could not long face the wind and frost. There was, however, every sign of a wild storm brewing; it might be several days before he could secure the letters if he turned back, and such a delay was not to be thought of.

He went on, following the ravine where he could trace its course, which was not always possible, until he decided that he must have reached the neighborhood of the farm. There was, however, nothing to indicate that he had done so. He could see only a few yards; the snow had all been smooth and unbroken near the hollow, he could distinguish no difference between any one part of it and the rest; and he recognized the risk he took when he turned his back on his last guide and struggled forward into the waste.

Walking became more difficult, the wind was getting stronger, and there was no sign of the shack. Perhaps he had gone too far to the south. He inclined to the right, but that brought him to nothing that might serve as a guide; there was only smooth snow and the white haze whirling round him. He turned more to the right, growing desperately afraid, stopped once or twice to ascertain by the way the snow drove past whether he was wandering from his course, and plodded on again savagely. At last something began to crackle beneath his feet. Stooping down, he saw that it was stubble, and he became sensible of a vast relief. He could not be more than a few minutes walk from the shack.

It was only three or four yards off when he saw it, and on entering he had difficulty in closing the rickety door. Then, when he had taken off his heavy mittens, it cost him some trouble to find and strike a match with his half-frozen hands. Holding up the light, he glanced eagerly at a shelf and saw the two letters he had expected; there was no mistaking the writing and the English stamps. He thrust them safely into a pocket beneath his furs when the match went out and struck another, for his next step required consideration.

The feeble radiance traveled round the little room, showing the rent, board walls and the beams rough from the saw that supported the cedar roofing shingles. A little snow had sifted in and lay on the floor; there was a rusty stove at one end, but no lamp or fuel, and the hay and blankets had been removed from the wooden bunk. Still, as George was warmly clad and had space to move about, he could pass the night there. The roar of the wind about the frail building rendered the prospects of the return journey strongly discouraging. He might, however, be detained all the next day by the snow; but what chiefly urged him to face the risk of starting for the homestead was his inability to read his letters. The sight of them had sent a thrill through him, which had banished all sense of the stinging cold. He had eagerly looked forward to a brief visit to the old country, and Sylvia had, no doubt, bidden him come. It was delightful to picture her welcome, and the evenings they would spend in Muriel Lansing's pretty drawing-room while he told her what he had done and unfolded his plans for the future. He could brook no avoidable delay in reading her message, and, nerving himself for a struggle, he set out again.

The shack vanished the moment he left it. The snow was thicker; and, floundering heavily through the storm, George had almost given up the attempt to find the ravine, when he fell violently into a clearer part of it. Then he gathered courage, for the bluff was large and would be difficult to miss; but it did not appear when he expected it. He was breathless, nearly blinded, and on the verge of exhaustion, when he crashed into a dwarf birch and, looking up half dazed, saw an indistinct mass of larger trees. He had now a guide, but it was hard to follow, with his strength fast falling and the savage wind buffeting him. He had stopped a moment, gasping, when something emerged from the driving snow. It was moving; it looked like a team with a sledge or wagon, and he thought that his companions had come in search of him. He cried out, but there was no answer, and though he tried to run, the beasts vanished as strangely as they had appeared.

They had, however, left their tracks, coming up from the south, where the settlement lay, and this convinced him that they had not been driven by Edgar or Grierson. He made an attempt to overtake them and, falling, went on again, wondering a little who the strangers could be; though this was not a matter of much consequence. If they had blankets or driving-robes, they might pass the night without freezing in the bluff, where there was fuel; but George was most clearly conscious of the urgent need for his reaching the homestead before his strength gave out.

At last he struck the beaten trail which had fortunately not yet been drifted up, and after keeping to it for a while he saw a faint twinkle of light in front of him. A voice answered his shout and when he stopped, keeping on his feet with difficulty and utterly worn out, a team came up, blurred and indistinct, out of the driving snow. After that somebody seized him and pushed him toward an empty sledge.

"Get down out of the wind; here's the fur robe!" cried a voice he recognized. "We came back as soon as we had thrown off the load."

George remembered very little about the remainder of the journey, but at last the sledge stopped where a warm glow of light shone out into the snow. Getting up with some trouble he reached the homestead door and walked heavily into the room where he sank, gasping, into a chair. He felt faint and dizzy, he could scarcely breathe; but those sensations grew less troublesome as he recovered from the violent change of temperature. Throwing off his furs, he noticed that Flett sat smoking near the stove.

"Here's some coffee," said the constable. "It's pretty lucky Grierson found you. I can't remember a worse night."

George drank the coffee. He still felt heavy and partly dazed; his mind was lethargic, and his hands and feet tingled painfully with the returning warmth. He knew that there was something he ought to tell Flett, but it was a few minutes before he could think clearly.

"I met a team near the bluff and lost it again almost immediately," he mumbled finally.

Flett's face became intent.

"Did the men who were with it see you? Which way were they going?"

"No," said George sleepily. "Anyway, though I called I didn't get an answer. I think they were going west."

"And there's no homestead for several leagues, except Langside's shack. They'll camp there sure."

"I don't see why they shouldn't," George remarked with languid indifference.

"Hasn't it struck you why those fellows should be heading into waste prairie on a night like this? Guess what they've got in the wagon's a good enough reason. If the snow's not too bad, they'll pull out for the Indian reservation soon as it's light to-morrow."

"You think they have liquor with them?" asked George.

Flett nodded and walked toward the door, and George felt the sudden fall of temperature and heard the scream of the wind. In a minute or two, however, the constable reappeared with Edgar.

"I'd get them sure; they're in the shack right now," Flett declared.

"You would never find it," Edgar remonstrated. "We had hard enough work to strike the homestead, and we were on a beaten trail, which will have drifted up since then. You'll have to drop the idea—it's quite impossible."

"It's blamed hard luck," grumbled Flett. "I may trail the fellows, but I certainly won't get them with the liquor right in the wagon, as it will be now, and without something of that kind it's mighty hard to secure a conviction. I've no use for the average jury; what we want is power to drop on to a man without any fuss or fooling and fix him so he won't make more trouble."

"It's fortunate you'll never get it," Edgar remarked. "I've a notion it would be a dangerous thing to trust even a Northwest policeman with. You're not all quite perfect yet."

Then George, recovering from his lethargy, remembered the letters and eagerly opened the one from Sylvia. It consisted of a few sentences in which she carelessly told him that if he came over he would not see her, as she was going to Egypt with Herbert and Muriel. The hint of regret that her journey could not be put off looked merely conventional, but she said he might make his visit in the early summer, as she would have returned by then.

George's face hardened as he read it, for the disappointment was severe. He thought that Sylvia might have remembered that he could not leave the farm after spring had begun. The man felt wounded and, for once, inclined to bitterness. His optimistic faith, which idealized its object, was bound to bring him suffering when dispelled by disillusion; offering sincere homage to all that seemed most worthy, he had not learned tolerance. Though his appreciation was quick and generous, he must believe in what he admired, and it was, perhaps, a misfortune that he was unable to recognize shortcomings with cynical good-humor. He could distinguish white from black—the one stood for spotless purity, the other was very dark indeed—but his somewhat restricted vision took no account of the more common intermediate shades.

For all that, he was incapable of seriously blaming Sylvia. Her letter had hurt him, but he began to make excuses for her, and several that seemed satisfactory presented themselves; then, feeling a little comforted, he opened the letter from Herbert with some anxiety. When he read it, he let it drop upon the table and set his lips tight. His cousin informed him that it would be most injudicious to raise any money just then by selling shares, as he had been requested to do. Those he had bought on George's account had depreciated in an unexpected manner and the markets were stagnant. George, he said, must carry on his farming operations as economically as possible, until the turn came.

"Bad news?" said Edgar sympathetically.

"Yes. I'll have to cut out several plans I'd made for spring; in fact, I don't quite see how I'm to go on working on a profitable scale. We'll have to do without the extra bunch of stock I was calculating on; and I'm not sure I can experiment with that quick-ripening wheat. There are a number of other things we'll have to dispense with."

"We'll pull through by some means," Edgar rejoined encouragingly, and George got up.

"I feel rather worn out," he said. "I think I'll go to sleep."

He walked wearily from the room, crumpling up the letters he had risked his life to secure.



CHAPTER XXI

GRANT COMES TO THE RESCUE

The storm had raged for twenty-four hours, but it had now passed, and it was a calm night when a little party sat in George's living-room. Outside, the white prairie lay still and silent under the Arctic frost, but there was no breath of wind stirring and the room was comfortably warm. A big stove glowed in the middle of it, and the atmosphere was permeated with the smell of hot iron, stale tobacco, and the exudations from resinous boards.

Grant and his daughter had called when driving back from a distant farm, and Trooper Flett had returned to the homestead after a futile search for the liquor smugglers. He was not characterized by mental brilliancy, but his persevering patience atoned for that, and his superior officers considered him a sound and useful man. Sitting lazily in an easy chair after a long day's ride in the nipping frost, he discoursed upon the situation.

"Things aren't looking good," he said. "We've had two cases of cattle-killing in the last month, besides some horses missing, and a railroad contractor knocked senseless with an empty bottle; and nobody's locked up yet."

"I don't think you have any reason to be proud of it," Edgar broke in.

Flett spread out his hands in expostulation.

"It's not our fault. I could put my hands on half a dozen men who're at the bottom of the trouble; but what would be the use of that, when the blamed jury would certainly let them off? In a case of this kind, our system of justice is mighty apt to break down. It's a pet idea of mine."

"How would you propose to alter it?" Edgar asked, to lead him on.

"If we must have a jury, I'd like to pick them, and they'd be men who'd lost some stock. You could depend on them."

"There's something to be said for that," Grant admitted with a dry smile.

"This is how we're fixed," Flett went on. "We're up against a small, but mighty smart, hard crowd; we know them all right, but we can't get after them. You must make good all you say in court, and we can't get folks to help us. They'd rather mind the store, have a game of pool, or chop their cordwood."

"I can think of a few exceptions," Edgar said. "Mrs. Nelson, for example. One could hardly consider her apathetic."

"That woman's dangerous! When we were working up things against Beamish, she must make him look like a persecuted victim. She goes too far; the others won't go far enough. Guess they're afraid of getting hurt."

"You couldn't say that of Mr. Hardie," Flora objected.

"No. But some of his people would like to fire him, and he's going to have trouble about his pay. Anyhow, this state of things is pretty hard on us. There's no use in bringing a man up when you've only got unwilling witnesses."

"What you want is a dramatic conviction," said Edgar sympathetically.

"Sure. It's what we're working for, and we'd get it if everybody backed us up as your partner and Mr. Grant are doing." He turned to George. "My coming back here is a little rough on you."

George smiled.

"I dare say it will be understood by the opposition, but I don't mind. It looks as if I were a marked man already."

A few minutes later Flett went out to attend to his horse; George took Grant into a smaller room which he used for an office; and Edgar and Flora were left alone. The girl sat beside the stove, with a thoughtful air, and Edgar waited for her to speak. Flora inspired him with an admiration which was largely tinged with respect, though, being critical, he sometimes speculated about the cause for this. She was pretty, but her style of beauty was rather severe. She had fine eyes and clearly-cut features, but her face was a little too reposeful and her expression usually somewhat grave; he preferred animation and a dash of coquetry. Her conversation was to the point—she had a way of getting at the truth of a matter—but there was nevertheless a certain reserve in it and he thought it might have been more sparkling. He had discovered some time ago that adroit flattery and hints that his devotion was hers to command only afforded her calm amusement.

"Mr. Lansing looks a little worried," she said at length.

"It strikes me as only natural," Edgar replied, "He has had a steer killed since the rustlers shot the bull; we have foiled one or two more attempts only by keeping a good lookout, and he knows that he lies open to any new attack that may be made on him. His position isn't what you could call comfortable."

"I hardly think that would disturb your comrade very much."

Edgar saw that she would not be put off with an inadequate explanation, and he was a little surprised that she did not seem to mind displaying her interest in George.

"Then," he said, "for another thing, he's disappointed about having to give up an English visit he had looked forward to."

He saw a gleam that suggested comprehension in her eyes.

"You mean that he is badly disappointed?"

"Yes," said Edgar; "I really think he is."

He left her to make what she liked of this, and he imagined that there was something to be inferred from it. He thought it might be wise to give her a hint that George's affections were already engaged.

"Besides," he resumed, "it's no secret that the loss of his harvest hit him pretty hard. We'll have to curtail our spring operation in several ways and study economy."

Flora glanced toward the door of the room her father had entered with George. Edgar thought she had done so unconsciously; but it was somewhat suggestive, though he could not see what it implied.

"Well," she said, "I'm inclined to believe that he'll get over his difficulties."

"So am I," Edgar agreed. "George isn't easy to defeat."

In the meanwhile Grant sat in the next room, smoking thoughtfully and asking George rather direct questions about his farming.

"I've made some inquiries about that new wheat your English botanist friend reported on," he said at length. "Our experimental farm people strongly recommend it, and there's a man I wrote to who can't say enough in its favor. You'll sow it this spring?"

"I'm afraid I'll have to stick to the common kinds," George said gloomily. "I've a pretty big acreage to crop and that special seed is remarkably dear."

"That's so," Grant agreed. "As a matter of fact, they haven't quite made their arrangements for putting it on the market yet, and the surest way to get some is to bid for a round lot. After what I'd heard, I wired a Winnipeg agent and he has promised to send me on what looks like more than I can use. Now I'll be glad to let you have as much as you want for your lightest land."

George felt grateful. He did not think that this methodical man had made any careless mistake over his order; but he hesitated.

"Thanks," he said. "Still, it doesn't get over the main difficulty."

"I guess it does. You would have had to pay money down for the seed, and I'll be glad to let the thing stand over until you have thrashed out. The price doesn't count; you can give me back as many bushels as you get."

"Then," said George with a slight flush, "you're more generous than wise. They haven't produced a wheat yet that will stand drought and hail. Suppose I have another year like last? I'm sorry I can't let you run this risk."

"We'll quit pretending. I owe a little to the country that has made me what I am, and these new hardy wheats are going to play a big part in its development. I want to see them tried on the poorest land."

"That's a good reason. I believe it goes some way, but I hardly think it accounts for everything."

His companion looked at him with fixed directness.

"Then, if you must be satisfied, you're my neighbor; you have had blamed hard luck and I like the way you're standing up to it. If anybody's on meaner soil than yours I want to see it. Anyway, here's the seed; take what you need, pay me back when you're able. Guess you're not too proud to take a favor that's gladly offered."

"I'd be a most ungrateful brute if I refused," George replied with feeling.

"That's done with," Grant said firmly; and soon afterward he and George returned to the other room.

After a while he went out with Edgar to look at a horse, and George turned to Flora.

"Your father has taken a big weight off my mind, and I'm afraid I hardly thanked him," he said.

"Then it was a relief?" she asked, and it failed to strike him as curious that she seemed to know what he was alluding to.

"Yes," he declared; "I feel ever so much more confident now that I can get that seed. The fact that it was offered somehow encouraged me."

"You never expected anything of the kind? I've sometimes thought you're apt to stand too much alone. You don't attach enough importance to your friends."

"Perhaps not," admitted George. "I've been very wrong in this instance; but I suppose one naturally prefers to hide one's difficulties."

"I don't think the feeling's universal. But you would, no doubt, be more inclined to help other people out of their troubles."

George looked a little embarrassed, and she changed the subject with a laugh.

"Come and see us when you can find the time. On the last occasion, you sent your partner over."

"I'd made an appointment with an implement man when I got your father's note. Anyway, I should have fancied that Edgar would have made a pretty good substitute."

"Mr. West is a favorite of ours; he's amusing and excellent company, as far as he goes."

Her tone conveyed a hint that Edgar had his limitations and he was not an altogether satisfactory exchange for his partner; but George laughed.

"He now and then goes farther than I would care to venture."

Flora looked at him with faint amusement.

"Yes," she said. "That's one of the differences between you; you're not assertive. It has struck me that you don't always realize your value."

"Would you like one to insist on it?"

"Oh," she said, "there's a happy medium; but I'm getting rather personal, and I hear the others coming."

She drove away a little later, and when Flett had gone to bed George and Edgar sat talking a while beside the stove.

"Grant's a staunch friend, and I'm more impressed with Flora every time I see her," said the lad. "She's pleasant to talk to, she can harness and handle a team with any one; but for all that, you recognize a trace of what I can only call the grand manner in her. Though I understand that she has been to the old country, it's rather hard to see how she got it."

George signified agreement. Miss Grant was undoubtedly characterized by a certain grace and now and then by an elusive hint of stateliness. It was a thing quite apart from self-assertion; a gracious quality, which he had hitherto noticed only in the bearing of a few elderly English ladies of station.

"I suppose you thanked her for that seed?" Edgar resumed.

"I said I was grateful to her father."

"I've no doubt you took the trouble to mark the distinction. It might have been more considerate if you had divided your gratitude."

"What do you mean?"

"It's hardly likely that the idea of helping you in that particular way originated with Alan Grant, though I shouldn't be surprised if he had been allowed to think it did."

George looked surprised and Edgar laughed.

"You needn't mind. It's most improbable that Miss Grant either wished or expected you to understand. She's a very intelligent young lady."

"It strikes me that you talk too much," George said severely.

He went out, feeling a little disturbed by what Edgar had told him, but unable to analyze his sensations. Putting on his furs, he proceeded to look around the stable, as he had fallen into a habit of doing before he went to rest. There was a clear moon in the sky, and although the black shadow of the buildings stretched out across the snow, George on approaching one noticed a few footprints that led toward it. There were numerous other tracks about, but he thought that those he was looking at had been made since he had last entered the house. This, however, did not surprise him, for Flett had recently visited the stable.

On entering the building, George stopped to feel for a lantern which was kept on a shelf near the door. The place was very dark and pleasantly warm by contrast with the bitter frost outside, and he could smell the peppermint in the prairie hay. Familiar sounds reached him—the soft rattle of a shaking rope, the crackle of crushed straw—but they were rather more numerous than usual, and while he listened one or two of the horses began to move restlessly.

The lantern was not to be found; George wondered whether Flett had carelessly forgotten to replace it. He felt his way from stall to stall, letting his hand fall on the hind quarters of the horses as he passed. They were all in their places, including Flett's gray, which lashed out at him when he touched it; there was nothing to excite suspicion, but when he reached the end of the row he determined to strike a match and look for the lantern. He was some time feeling for the match-box under his furs, and while he did so he heard a soft rustling in the stall nearest the door. This was curious, for the stall, being a cold one, was unoccupied, and there was something significantly stealthy in the sound; but it ceased, and while he listened with strained attention a horse moved and snorted. Then, while he fumbled impatiently at a button of his skin coat which would not come loose, an icy draught stole into the building.

It was obvious that the door was open; he had left it shut.

Breaking off his search for the matches, he made toward the entrance and sprang out. There was nobody upon the moonlit snow, and the shadows were hardly deep enough to conceal a lurking man. He ran toward the end of the rather long building; but, as it happened, he had to make a round to avoid a stack of wood and a wagon on the way. When he turned the corner, the other side of the stable was clear in the moonlight and, so far as he could see, the snow about it was untrodden. It looked as if he had made for the wrong end of the building, and he retraced his steps toward a barn that stood near its opposite extremity. Running around it, he saw nobody, nor any footprints that seemed to have been recently made; and while he stood wondering what he should do next, Grierson appeared between him and the house.

"Were you in the stables a minute or two ago?" George called to him,

"No," said the other approaching. "I'd just come out for some wood when I saw you run round the barn."

George gave him a brief explanation, and the man looked about.

"Perhaps we'd better search the buildings; if there was any stranger prowling round, he might have dodged you in the shadow. It's hardly likely he'd make for the prairie; the first clump of brush big enough to hide a man is a quarter of a mile off."

They set about the search, but found nobody, and George stopped outside the last building with a puzzled frown on his face.

"It's very strange," he said. "I left the door shut; I couldn't be mistaken."

"Look!" cried Grierson, clutching his arm. "There's no mistaking about that!"

Turning sharply, George saw a dim mounted figure cross the crest of a low rise some distance away and vanish beyond it.

"The fellow must have run straight for the poplar scrub, keeping the house between you and him," Grierson explained. "He'd have left his horse among the brush."

"I suppose that was it," George said angrily. "As there's no chance of overtaking him, we'll have a look at the horses, with a light, and then let Flett know."

There was nothing wrong in the stable, where they found the lantern George had looked for flung down in the empty stall, and in a very short space of time after they had called him Flett appeared. He walked round the buildings and examined some of the footprints with a light, and then he turned to George.

"Looks like an Indian by his stride," he said. "Guess I'll have to saddle up and start."

"You could hardly come up with the fellow; he'll have struck into one of the beaten trails, so as to leave no tracks," Edgar pointed out.

"That's so," said Flett. "I don't want to come up with him. It wouldn't be any use when your partner and Grierson couldn't swear to the man."

"What could have been his object?" George asked. "He seems to have done no harm."

"He wanted to see if my gray was still in the stable," Flett said dryly. "His friends have some business they'd sooner I didn't butt into fixed up somewhere else."

"But you have no idea where?"

"I haven't; that's the trouble. There are three or four different trails I'd like to watch, and I quite expect to strike the wrong one. Then, if the man knows you saw him, he might take his friends warning to change their plans. All the same, I'll get off."

He rode away shortly afterward, and as the others went back toward the house Edgar laughed.

"I don't think being a police trooper has many attractions in winter," he remarked. "Hiding in a bluff for several hours with the temperature forty degrees below, on the lookout for fellows who have probably gone another way, strikes me as a very unpleasant occupation."



CHAPTER XXII

THE SPREAD OF DISORDER

Flett spent a bitter night, keeping an unavailing watch among the willows where a lonely trail dipped into a ravine. Not a sound broke the stillness of the white prairie, and realizing that the men he wished to surprise had taken another path, he left his hiding-place shortly before daylight. He was almost too cold and stiff to mount; but as his hands and feet tingled painfully, it was evident that they had escaped frostbite, and that was something to be thankful for.

Reaching an outlying farm, he breakfasted and rested a while, after which he rode on to the Indian reservation, where he found signs of recent trouble. A man to whom he was at first refused access lay with a badly battered face in a shack which stood beside a few acres of roughly broken land; another man suffering from what looked like an ax wound sat huddled in dirty blankets in a teepee. It was obvious that a fight, which Flett suspected was the result of a drunken orgy, had been in progress not long before; but he could find no liquor nor any man actually under its influence, though the appearance of several suggested that they were recovering from a debauch. He discovered, however, in a poplar thicket the hide of a steer, from which a recent breeze had swept its covering of snow. This was a serious matter, and though the brand had been removed, Flett identified the skin as having belonged to an animal reported to him as missing.

He had now, when dusk was approaching, two charges of assault and one of cattle-killing to make, and it would not be prudent to remain upon the reservation during the night with anybody he arrested. The Indians were in a sullen, threatening mood; it was difficult to extract any information, and Flett was alone. He was, however, not to be daunted by angry looks or ominous mutterings, and by persistently questioning the injured men he learned enough to warrant his making two arrests; though he decided that the matter of the hide must be dropped for the present.

It was in a state of nervous tension that he mounted and drove his prisoners on a few paces in front of him. If he could get them into the open, he thought he would be safe, but the reservation was, for the most part, a tract of brush and bluff, pierced by ravines, among which he half expected an attempt would be made to facilitate their escape. For all that, he was, so far as appearances went, very calm and grim when he set out, and his prisoners, being ahead, did not notice that he searched each taller patch of brush they entered with apprehensive glances. Nor did they see his hand drop to his pistol-butt when something moved in the bushes as they went down the side of a dark declivity.

There was, however, no interference, and he felt more confident when he rode out into the moonlight which flooded the glittering prairie. Here he could deal with any unfavorable developments; but it was several leagues to the nearest shelter, and the Indians did not seem inclined to travel fast. The half-frozen constable would gladly have walked, only that he felt more master of the situation upon his horse. Mile after mile, they crossed the vast white waste, without a word being spoken, except when the shivering man sternly bade his prisoners, "Get on!"

Hand-cuffed as they were, he dare not relax his vigilance nor let them fall back too near him; and he had spent the previous night in the bitter frost. At times he felt painfully drowsy, but he had learned to overcome most bodily weaknesses, and his eyes only left the dark, plodding figures in front of him when he swept a searching glance across the plain. Nothing moved on it, and only the soft crunch of snow broke the dreary silence. At last, a cluster of low buildings rose out of the waste, and soon afterward Flett got down with difficulty and demanded shelter. The rudely awakened farmer gave him the use of his kitchen, in which a stove was burning; and while the Indians went to sleep on the floor, Flett, choosing an uncomfortable upright chair, lighted his pipe and sat down to keep another vigil. When dawn broke, his eyes were still open, though his face was a little haggard and very weary.

He obtained a conviction for assault; but, as the charges of cattle-killing and being in possession of liquor had to be dropped, this was small consolation. It left the men he considered responsible absolutely untouched.

Afterward, he played a part in other somewhat similar affairs, for offenses were rapidly becoming more numerous among both Indians and mean whites; but in spite of his efforts the gang he suspected managed to evade the grip of the law. Flett, however, was far from despairing; he waited his time and watched.

While he did so, spring came, unusually early. A warm west wind swept the snow away and for a week or two the softened prairie was almost impassable to vehicles. Then the wind veered to the northwest with bright sunshine, the soil began to dry, and George set out on a visit to Brandon where he had some business to transact.

Reaching Sage Butte in the afternoon, he found it suffering from the effects of the thaw. A swollen creek had converted the ground on one side of the track into a shallow lake; the front street resembled a muskeg, furrowed deep by sinking wheels. The vehicles outside the hotels were covered with sticky mire; the high, plank sidewalks were slippery with it, and foot passengers when forced to leave them sank far up their long boots; one or two of the stores were almost cut off by the pools. It rained between gleams of sunshine, and masses of dark cloud rolled by above the dripping town and wet prairie, which had turned a dingy gray.

As he was proceeding along one sidewalk, George met Hardie, and it struck him that the man was looking dejected and worn.

"Will you come back with me and wait for supper?" he asked. "I'd be glad of a talk."

"I think not," said George. "You're on the far side of the town and there are two streets to cross; you see, I'm going to Brandon, and I'll take enough gumbo into the cars with me, as it is. Then my train leaves in half an hour. I suppose I mustn't ask you to come into the Queen's?"

"No," said the clergyman. "Our old guard won't tolerate the smallest compromise with the enemy, and there's a good deal to be said for their point of view. After all, half-measures have seldom much result; a man must be one thing or another. But we might try the new waiting-room at the station."

The little room proved to be dry and comparatively clean, besides being furnished with nicely made and comfortable seats. Leaning back in one near the stove, George turned to his companion.

"How are things going round here?" he asked.

"Very much as I expected; we tried and failed to apply a check in time, and of late we have had a regular outbreak of lawlessness. At first sight, it's curious, considering that three-fourths of the inhabitants of the district are steady, industrious folk, and a proportion of the rest are capable of being useful citizens."

"Then how do you account for the disorder?"

Hardie looked thoughtful.

"I suppose we all have a tendency to follow a lead, which is often useful in an organized state of society; though it depends on the lead. By way of counter-balance, we have a certain impatience of restraint. Granting this, you can see that when the general tone of a place is one of sobriety and order, people who have not much love for either find it more or less easy to conform. But, if you set them a different example, one that slackens restrictions instead of imposing them, they'll follow it, and it somehow seems to be the rule that the turbulent element exerts the stronger influence. Anyway, it becomes the more prominent. You hear of the fellow who steals a horse in a daring manner; the man who quietly goes on with his plowing excites no notice."

"One must agree with that," George replied. "Popular feeling's fickle; a constant standard is needed to adjust it by."

Hardie smiled.

"It was given us long ago. But I can't believe that there's much general sympathy with these troublesome fellows. What I complain of is popular apathy; nobody feels it his business to interfere; though this state of things can't continue. The patience of respectable people will wear out; and then one can look for drastic developments."

"In the meanwhile, the other crowd are having their fling."

Hardie nodded.

"That's unfortunately true, though the lawbreakers have now and then come off second-best. A few days ago, Wilkie, the station-agent, was sitting in his office when a man who had some grievance against the railroad walked up to the window. Wilkie told him he must send his claim to Winnipeg, and the fellow retorted that he would have satisfaction right away out of the agent's hide. With that, he climbed in through the window; and I must confess to a feeling of satisfaction when I heard that he left the station in need of medical assistance. A week earlier, Taunton, of the store, was walking home along the track in the dark after collecting some of his accounts, when a man jumped out from behind a stock of ties with a pistol and demanded his wallet. Taunton, taken by surprise, produced a wad of bills, but the thief was a little too eager or careless in seizing them, for Taunton grabbed the pistol and got his money back. After that, he marched the man three miles along the track and into his store. I don't know what happened then, but I heard that there were traces of a pretty lively scuffle."

George laughed, but his companion continued more gravely:

"Then we have had a number of small disturbances when the men from the new link line came into town—they've graded the track to within a few miles now—and I hold Beamish responsible; they haven't encouraged these fellows at the Queen's. In fact, I mean to walk over and try to get a few words with them as soon as I leave you."

"One would hardly think Saturday evening a very good time," George commented.

His train came in shortly afterward, and when it had gone Hardie went home for a rubber coat, and then took the trail leading out of the settlement. He was forced to trudge through the tangled grass beside it because the soft gumbo soil stuck to his boots in great black lumps, and the patches of dwarf brush through which he must smash made progress laborious. After a while, however, he saw a long trail of black smoke ahead, and sounds of distant activity grew steadily louder.

There was an angry red glare on the western horizon, though the light was beginning to fade, when he reached the end of the new line and found a crowd of men distributing piles of gravel and spiking down the rails which ran back, gleaming in the sunset, lurid, straight and level, across the expanse of grass, until they were lost in the shadowy mass of a bluff. Near the men stood a few jaded teams and miry wagons; farther on a row of freight-cars occupied a side-track, a little smoke rising from the stacks on the roofs of one or two. Their doors were open, and on passing, Hardie noticed the dirty blue blankets and the litter of wet clothing in the rude bunks. As he approached the last car, which served as store and office, a man sprang down upon the line. He wore wet long boots and an old rubber coat stained with soil, but there was a stamp of authority upon his bronzed face.

"How are you getting on, Mr. Farren?" Hardie inquired.

"Slowly," said the other; "can't catch up on schedule contract time. We've had rain and heavy soil ever since we began. The boys have been giving me some trouble, too."

"You won't mind my having a few words with them?"

"Why, no," said Farren. "Guess they need it; but I'm most afraid you'll be wasting time. The Scandinavians, who're quiet enough and might agree with you, can't understand, and it's quite likely that the crowd you want to get at won't listen. Anyway, you can try it after they've dubbed the load off the gravel train; she's coming now."

He pointed toward a smear of smoke that trailed away across the prairie. It grew rapidly blacker and nearer, and presently a grimy locomotive with a long string of clattering cars behind it came down the uneven track. It had hardly stopped when the sides of the low cars dropped, and a plow moved forward from one to another, hurling off masses of gravel that fell with a roar. Then the train, backing out, came to a standstill again, and a swarm of men became busy about the line. Dusk was falling, but the blaze of the great electric light on the locomotive streamed along the track. While Hardie stood watching, half a dozen men dropped their tools and walked up to his companion.

"We're through with our lot," announced one. "We're going to the Butte and we'll trouble you for a sub of two dollars a man."

"You won't get it," said Farren shortly. "I want the ties laid on the next load."

"Then you can send somebody else to fix them. We're doing more than we booked for."

"You're getting paid for it."

"Shucks!" said the other contemptuously. "What we want is an evening at the Butte; and we're going to have it! Hand over the two dollars."

"No, sir," said Farren. "I've given in once or twice and I've got no work out of you for most two days afterward. You can quit tie-laying, if you insist; but you'll get no money until pay-day."

One of the men pulled out his watch.

"Boys," he said, "if we stop here talking, there won't be much time left for a jag when we make the Butte. Are you going to let him bluff you?"

The growl from the others was ominous. They had been working long hours at high pressure in the rain, and had suffered in temper. One of them strode forward and grasped Farren's shoulder.

"Now," he demanded, "hand out! It's our money."

There was only one course open to Farren. His position was not an easy one, and if he yielded, his authority would be gone.

His left arm shot out and the man went down with a crash. Then the others closed with him and a savage struggle began.

Hardie laid hold of a man who had picked up an iron bar, and managed to wrest it from him, but another struck him violently on the head, and he had a very indistinct idea of what went on during the next minute or two. There was a struggling knot of men pressed against the side of the car, but it broke up when more figures came running up and one man cried out sharply as he was struck by a heavy lump of gravel. Then Hardie found himself kneeling beside Farren, who lay senseless near the wheels with the blood running down his set white face. Behind him stood the panting locomotive engineer, trying to hold back the growing crowd.

"Looks pretty bad," he said. "What's to be done with him?"

"We had better get him into his bunk," directed Hardie. "Then I'll make for the Butte as fast as I can and bring the doctor out."

"It would take two hours," objected the engineer, as he gently removed Farren's hat. "Strikes me as a mighty ugly gash; the thing must be looked to right away. If I let her go, throttle wide, we ought to make Carson in half an hour, and they've a smart doctor there." He said something to his fireman and added: "Get hold; we'll take him along."

It looked as if the outbreak had not met with general approval, for a number of the bystanders offered their help and the injured man was carefully carried to the locomotive.

"I'll run the cars along as far as the gravel pit; then I can book the journey," the engineer said to Hardie. "But as I can't get off at the other end, you'll have to come along."

Hardie wondered how he would get back, but that was not a matter of great consequence, though he had to preach at Sage Butte in the morning, and he climbed up when Farren had been lifted into the cab. Then he sat down on the floor plates and rested the unconscious man's head and shoulders against his knees as the engine began to rock furiously. Nothing was said for a while; the uproar made by the banging cars would have rendered speech inaudible, but when they had been left behind, the engineer looked at Hardie.

"In a general way, it's not the thing to interfere in a row with a boss," he said. "Still, four to two, with two more watching out for a chance to butt in, is pretty steep odds, and Farren's a straight man. I felt quite good when I hit one of those fellows with a big lump of gravel."

Hardie could understand his sensations and did not rebuke him. So far as his experience went, the western locomotive crews were of an excellent type, and he was willing to admit that there were occasions when the indignation of an honest man might be expressed in vigorous action.