"It's marked," Walthew agreed with a chuckle. "When I first tried to put the traces on I thought they'd eat me. Even now I have some trouble; and I'll venture to remind my superior that he'd be short of some of his fingers if they didn't serve us out good thick mittens."

"That's right," admitted Lane good-humoredly. "I'm sure no good at dogs. If you're going to drive them, you want to speak Karalit or French. Plain English cussin's no blame use."

Emile announced that supper was ready, and the police watched their new acquaintances devour it with sympathetic understanding, for they had more than once covered long distances on very short rations in the arctic frost. Afterward they lighted their pipes, and Emile, being tactfully encouraged, told them in broken English stories of the barrens. These were so strange and gruesome that it was only because they had learned something of the wilds that Harding and his friends could believe him. Had they been less experienced, they would have denied that flesh and blood could bear the things the half-breed calmly talked about.

While Emile spoke, there broke out behind the camp a sudden radiance which leaped from the horizon far up the sky. It had in it the scintillation of the diamond, for the flickering brilliance changed from pure white light to evanescent blue and rose. Spreading in a vast, irregular arc, it hung like a curtain, wavering to and fro and casting off luminous spears that stabbed the dark. For a time it blazed in transcendental splendor, then faded and receded, dying out with unearthly glimmering far back in the lonely North.

"That's pretty fine," Lane commented mildly.

Blake smiled, but made no answer. He and his comrades were getting drowsy, and although a stinging wind swept the camp and the green wood burned badly, they were filled with a serene content. The keen bodily craving was satisfied; they had eaten and could sleep; and it looked as if their troubles were over. The dogs were obviously fit for travel, for they were still engaged in a vigorous quarrel over some caribou bones; the toil of the journey would be lightened by carrying their loads on the sled; and the party was strong enough to assist any member of it whose strength might give way. There was no reason to apprehend any difficulty in reaching the settlements; and in their relief at the unexpected rescue their thoughts went no farther. After the hunger and the nervous strain they had borne, they were blissfully satisfied with their present ease. There would be time enough to consider the future.

Sergeant Lane got up and shook the snow from his blanket.

"I've seen a better fire, boys, but I've camped with none at all on as cold a night," he said. "So far as I can figure, we have grub enough; but now that there are three more of us we don't want to lose time. You'll be ready to pull out by seven in the morning."

They lay down in the most comfortable places they could find, and slept soundly, although once during the night Harding was awakened by a dog that crept up to him for warmth.



CHAPTER XX

A STARTLING DISCOVERY

It was getting light the next morning when the reinforced party entered a belt of thicker timber where they first clearly realized the fury of the storm. The trees were small and sprang from a frozen muskeg, so that they could not be uprooted, but the gale had snapped the trunks and laid them low in swaths. Even in the spots where some had withstood its force the ground was strewn with split and broken branches, and to lee of them the snow had gathered in billowy drifts. The scene of ruin impressed the men, who were forced to make long rounds in search of a passage for the sled.

"About as fierce a blizzard as I remember," Sergeant Lane remarked. "We were held up three days, and thought ourselves lucky in making a ravine with a steep bank; but the wind couldn't have been quite so strong back north a piece. There'd have been two names less on the roster if we'd been caught down here."

Harding thought this was probable. He had had a protecting rock at his back, but in the valley there was no shelter from the storm that had leveled the stoutest trees. Even the four-footed inhabitants of the wilds could hardly have escaped. As he stumbled among the wreckage, Harding thought about the man whose footsteps they had seen near the Indian village. Unless he had found some secure retreat he must have had to face the fury of the gale. Harding felt convinced that the man was Clarke. It was curious that he should have been living alone among the empty tepees, but Harding imagined that he was in some way accountable for the Indians' departure, and he wondered where he was going when he crossed the range. There was a mystery about the matter, and if an explanation could be arrived at it would be of interest to him and his friends. Even before Clarke had sent them into the muskeg when he knew it was practically impassable, Harding had entertained a deep distrust of him.

Blake called him to help in dragging the sled over an obstacle, and the difficulties of the way afterward occupied his attention. When they found clearer ground they made good progress, and, late in the afternoon, seeing a rocky spur running out from the hillside, they headed for it to look for a sheltered camping place. There was still some daylight, but a cold wind had sprung up, blowing the loose snow into their faces.

As they neared the spur, the dogs swerved, as if attracted by something, and the half-breed struck the nearest dog and drove them on.

"That was curious," said Private Walthew. "It was old Chasseur who led them off, and he's not given to playing tricks."

"A dead mink or beaver in the snow," the sergeant suggested. "I didn't notice anything, but they have a keen scent. Anyhow, let's get into camp."

They found a nook among the rocks, and Emile loosed the dogs and threw them some frozen fish while the men had supper. It was a heavy, lowering evening, and the bitter air was filled with the murmur of the spruces as the wind passed over them. Though the light was fading, they kept their sharpness of outline, rising, black and ragged, from a sweep of chill, lifeless gray. When the meal was nearly finished, Lane looked round the camp.

"Where are the dogs?" he asked. "They're very quiet."

"I leaf zem la bas," explained Emile, waving his hand toward a neighboring hollow. Then, moving a few paces forward, he exclaimed: "Ah! les coquins!"

"Looks as if they'd bolted," Walthew said. "I think I know where to find them."

He left the camp with Emile, and presently they heard the half-breed threatening the dogs; then Walthew's voice reached them and there was a hoarse and urgent tone in it. Springing up, they ran back along the trail and found Emile keeping off the dogs while Walthew bent over a dark object that lay half revealed in the clawed up snow. At first Harding saw only a patch or two of ragged fur that looked as if it belonged to an animal; then with a shock he caught the outline of a man's shoulder and arm. The rest of the party gathered round, breathless after their haste, and when Lane spoke there was grave authority in his voice.

"Give me a hand, boys. We have to get him out."

They did so with mingled compassion and reluctance, though Harding was sensible of a curious strained expectation. Soon the body lay clear of the snow, and the dim light fell on the frozen face.

"It's Clarke!" Blake cried.

"Sure," said Harding gravely. "I'm not surprised."

"Then you knew him?" Lane's tone was sharp.

Benson answered him.

"Yes; I knew him pretty well. He lived at Sweetwater, where we're going. I can give you any particulars you want."

"I'll ask you later." The sergeant knelt down and carefully studied the dead man's pose. "Looks as if he'd been caught in the blizzard and died of exposure; but that's a thing I've got to ascertain. I'll want somebody's help in getting him out of this big coat."

None of them volunteered, but when Lane gave Walthew a sharp order Blake and Harding joined them, and Harding afterward held the fur coat. Blake noticed that he folded and arranged it on his arm with what seemed needless care, though he first turned his back toward the others. Lane was now engaged in examining the body, and the men stood watching him, impressed by the scene. All round the narrow opening the spruces rose darkly against the threatening sky, and in its midst the sergeant bent over the still form. It made a dark blot on the pale glimmer of the snow, and the white patch of the face was faintly distinguishable in the fading light. The spruce tops stirred, shaking down loose snow, which fell with a soft patter, and the wind blew trails of it about.

"I can find nothing wrong," Lane said at last.

"Considering that you came across the man lying frozen after one of the worst storms you remember, what did you expect to find?" Harding asked.

"Well," the sergeant answered dryly, "it's my duty to make investigations. Though I didn't think it likely, there might have been a knife cut or a bullet hole. One of you had better bring up the sled. We can't break this ground without dynamite, but there are some loose rocks along the foot of the spur."

The sled was brought and Clarke was gently placed on it, wrapped in his fur coat. Then they took the traces and started for the ridge, where they built up a few stones above the hollow in which they laid him. It was quite dark when they had finished, and Lane made a gesture of relief.

"Well," he said, "that's done, and he'll lie safely there. Rough on him, but it's a hard country and many a good man has left his bones in it. I guess we'll get back to camp."

They crossed the snow in silence, trailing the empty sled, and for a while after they reached camp nobody spoke. Lane sat near the fire, where the light fell on the book in which he wrote with a pencil held awkwardly in his mittened hand, while Blake watched him and mused. He had no cause to regret Clarke's death, but he felt some pity for the man. Gifted with high ability, he had, through no fault of his own, been driven out of a profession in which he was keenly interested, and made an outcast. His subsequent life had been a hard and evil one, but it had ended in a tragic manner; and this was made all the more impressive because Blake and his companions had narrowly escaped the same fate. In spite of the cheerful fire, the camp had a lonely air, and Blake shivered as he glanced at the gleaming snow and the dusky trees that shut it in. There was something in the desolate North that daunted him.

Harding's reflections also centered on the dead man, and he had food for thought. There was a mystery to be explained. He imagined that he had a clue to it in his pocket, though he could not follow it up for the present. He waited with some anxiety until Lane closed his book.

"Now," said the sergeant, "there are one or two points I want explained, and as you know the man, it's possible that you can help me. How did he come to be here with only about three days' rations?"

"I can answer that," said Harding. "He was in the habit of staying at the Indian village we told you of. We saw tracks coming from it when we were there the day before the blizzard began."

"A white man's tracks? Why did you go to the village?"

"I believe they were. We went to look for provisions, and didn't get them, because the place was empty."

"Then how do you account for the fellow's being there alone?"

"I can't account for it," Blake said quietly.

Lane turned to Harding. The American had a theory, but he was not prepared to communicate it to the police.

"It's certainly curious," he said evasively.

"We'll start for the village to-morrow."

"As the Indians are away, there won't be much to be learned," Benson suggested.

"They may have come back. Anyway, it's my business to find out all I can."

Soon afterward they went to sleep; and, rising an hour or two before daylight, they broke camp and turned back across the hills. The march was rough and toilsome, and when they camped at night fatigue and drowsiness checked conversation, but Blake and his comrades were sensible of a difference in Lane's manner. It had become reserved, and he had a thoughtful look. Reaching the village one evening, they were surprised to find that some of the Indians had returned. After supper Lane summoned them into the tepee he occupied. Emile interpreted, but he had some difficulty in making himself understood, for which Harding was inclined to be thankful.

The sergeant began by explaining the authority and business of the North-West Police, of whom it appeared one or two of the Indians had heard. Then he made Emile ask them if they knew Clarke. One of them said that they did, and added that he stayed with them now and then. Lane next asked why they took him in, and the Indian hesitated.

"He was a big medicine man and cured us when we were ill," he answered cautiously.

"Do you know these white men?" Lane asked, indicating Blake's party.

An Indian declared that they had never seen them, though he added that it was known that they were in the neighborhood. Being questioned about this, he explained that about the time of Clarke's arrival one of the tribe had come in from the North, where he had met a half-breed who told him that he had traveled some distance with three white men who were going to the settlements. Knowing the country, they had calculated that the white men could not be very far off.

Harding felt anxious. He saw where Lane's questions led, and realized that the sergeant meant to sift the matter thoroughly. There was not much cause to fear that he and his friends would be held responsible for Clarke's death; but he suspected things he did not wish the police to guess; and the Indians might mention having seen a white man's footprints on the occasion when he had forcibly taken Clarke away. Owing perhaps to their difficulty in making themselves understood, nothing, however, was said of this.

"How was it you left the white man in your village by himself?" Lane asked.

The Indians began to talk to one another, and it was with some trouble that Emile at last elicited an answer.

"It is a thing that puzzles us," said one. "The white man came alone and told us he had seen tracks of caribou three days' journey back. As we had no meat, and our fish was nearly done, six of us went to look for the deer."

"Six of you? Where are the rest? These tepees would hold a good many people."

"They are hunting farther north," the Indian explained. "When we got to the place the white man told us of, we could see no caribou tracks. As he was a good hunter, we thought this strange; but we went on, because there was another muskeg like the one he spoke of, and we might not have understood him. Then the snow came and we camped until it was over, and afterward came back, finding no deer. When we reached the tepees, he had gone, and we do not know what has become of him. We could not follow because the snow had covered his trail."

"He is dead," Lane said abruptly. "I found him frozen a few days ago."

Their surprise was obviously genuine, and Lane was quick to notice signs of regret. He imagined that Clarke had been a person of some importance among them.

"Tell them I don't want them any more," he said to Emile, and when the Indians went out he turned to Benson. "Give me all the information you are able to about the man."

Benson told him as much as he thought judicious, and Lane sat silent for a while.

"There is no reason to doubt that he came to his death by misadventure," he decided. "I don't quite understand what led him to visit these fellows; but, after all, that doesn't count."

"It isn't very plain," Benson replied. "Is there anything else you wish to know?"

"No," said Lane, looking at him steadily. "You can take it that this inquiry is closed; we'll pull out the first thing to-morrow." He beckoned Walthew. "Now that we're here, we may as well find out what we can about these fellows, and how they live. It will fill up our report, and they like that kind of information at Regina."

When the police had left the tepee Harding turned to his companions with a smile.

"Sergeant Lane is a painstaking officer, but his shrewdness has its limits, and there are points he seems to have missed. It would have been wiser not to have let Clarke's coat out of his hands until he had searched it."

"Ah!" Blake exclaimed sharply. "You emptied the pockets?"

"I did. My action was hardly justifiable, perhaps, but I thought it better that the police shouldn't get on the track of matters that haven't much bearing on Clarke's death. I found two things, and they're both of interest to us. We'll take this one first."

He drew out a metal flask, and when he unstoppered it a pungent smell pervaded the tepee.

"Crude petroleum," he explained. "I should imagine the flash-point is low. I can't say how Clarke got the stuff when the ground's hard frozen, but here it is."

"Isn't a low flash-point a disadvantage?" Benson asked. "It must make the oil explosive."

"It does, but all petroleum's refined, and the by-products they take off, which includes gasoline, fetch a remarkably good price. Shake a few drops on the end of a hot log and we'll see how it lights."

A fire burned in a ring of stones in the middle of the tepee, and Benson carefully did as he was told. Hardly had the oil fallen on the wood before it burst into flame.

"As I thought!" exclaimed Harding. "I suspect the presence of one or two distillates that should be worth as much as the kerosene. We'll get the stuff analyzed later; but you had better stopper the flask, because we don't want the smell to rouse Lane's curiosity. The important point is that, as I've reasons for believing the oil is fresh from the ground, Clarke must have found it shortly before the blizzard overtook him. That fixes the locality, and we shouldn't have much trouble in striking the spot when we come back again." His eyes sparkled. "It's going to be well worth while; this is a big thing!"

Blake did not feel much elation. He had all along thought his comrade too sanguine; though he meant to back him.

"In a way, it was very hard luck for Clarke," he said. "If you're right in your conclusions, he's been searching for the oil for several years; and now he's been cut off just when it looks as if he'd found it."

"You don't owe him much pity. What would have happened if we hadn't met the police?"

"It's unpleasant to think of. No doubt we'd have starved to death."

"A sure thing!" said Harding. "It hasn't struck you that this was what he meant us to do."

Blake started.

"Are you making a bold guess, or have you any ground for what you're saying?"

"I see you'll have to be convinced. Very well; in the first place, the man would have stuck at nothing. I've already tried to show you that he had something to gain by Benson's death. I suspected when we took you away from him that you were running a big risk, Benson."

"I was running a bigger one before that, if you can call a thing a risk when the result's inevitable," Benson replied. "The pace I was going would have killed me in another year or two, and even now I'm half afraid——" He paused for a few moments, with somber face and knitted brows. "I believe you're right, Harding," he went on thoughtfully; "but you haven't told us how he proposed to get rid of me."

"I'm coming to that. There was, however, another member of this party who was in his way, and he made his plans to remove you both."

"You mean me?" Blake broke in. "I don't see how he'd profit by my death."

"First, let's look at what he did. As soon as he reached the village, he heard that we had started from the Hudson Bay post. It wouldn't be difficult to calculate how long the food we could carry would last, and he'd see that the chances were in favor of our calling at the village for provisions. Presuming on that, he sent his friends away to look for caribou which they couldn't find. They admitted that they were puzzled, because he was a good hunter. Then he cleared out by himself; and I believe that if there was any food left in the place he carefully hid it."

Harding took out a letter and handed it to Blake.

"That," he said, "will show you how he would have profited. I found it in his pocket."

Blake started. It was Colonel Challoner's handwriting, and was addressed to Clarke.

"Read it," Benson advised; "it's justifiable."

Blake read it aloud, holding the paper near the fire, where the light showed up the grimness of his face:

"'In reply to your letter, I have nothing further to say. I believe I have already made my intentions plain. It would be useless for you to trouble me with any further proposals.'"

Blake folded the letter and put it into his pocket before he spoke.

"I think I see," he said very quietly. "The man has been trying to bleed the Colonel, and has got his answer."

"Is that all?" Harding asked.

"Well, I believe it proves that your conclusions are right. I won't go into particulars, but where my uncle and cousin are threatened I'm, so to speak, the leading witness for the defense, and it wouldn't have suited Clarke to let me speak. No doubt, that's why he took rather drastic measures to put me out of the way."

"Then you mean never to question the story of the Indian affair?"

"What do you know about it?" Blake asked curtly.

Harding laughed.

"I know the truth. Haven't I marched and starved and shared my plans with you? If there had been any meanness in you, wouldn't I have found it out? What's more, Benson knows what really happened, and so does Colonel Challoner. How else could Clarke have put the screw on him?"

"He doesn't seem to have made much impression; you have heard the Colonel's answer." Blake frowned. "We'll drop this subject. If Challoner attached any importance to what you think Clarke told him, his first step would have been to send for me.

"I expect you'll find a letter waiting for you at Sweetwater," Harding replied.

Blake did not answer, and soon afterward Sergeant Lane came in with Walthew.



CHAPTER XXI

A MATTER OF DUTY

The campfire burned brightly in a straggling bluff at the edge of the plain. The scattered trees were small and let in the cold wind, and the men were gathered close round the fire in a semi-circle on the side away from the smoke. Sergeant Lane held a notebook in his hand, while Emile repacked a quantity of provisions, the weight of which they had been carefully estimating. The sergeant's calculations were not reassuring, and he frowned.

"The time we lost turning back to the Stony village has made a big hole in our grub," he said. "Guess we'll have to cut the menoo down and do a few more miles a day."

"Our party's used to that," Blake answered with a smile. "I suggest another plan. You have brought us a long way, and Sweetwater's a bit off your line. Suppose you give us food enough to last us on half rations and let us push on."

"No, sir!" said Lane decidedly. "We see this trip through together. For another thing, the dogs are playing out, and after the way they've served us I want to save them. With your help at the traces we make better time."

Blake could not deny this. The snow had been in bad condition for the last week, and the men had relieved each other in hauling the sled. The police camp equipment was heavy, but it could not be thrown away, for the men preferred some degree of hunger to lying awake at nights, half frozen. Moreover, neither Blake nor his comrades desired to leave their new friends and once more face the rigors of the wilds alone.

"Then we'll have to make the best speed we can," he said.

They talked about the journey still before them for another hour. It was a clear night and very cold, but there was a crescent moon in the sky. The wind had fallen; the fragile twigs of the birches which shot up among the poplars were still, and deep silence brooded over the wide stretch of snow.

"Ah!" Emile exclaimed suddenly. "You hear somet'ing?"

They did not, though they listened hard; but the half-breed had been born in the wilderness, and they could not think him mistaken. For a minute or two his pose suggested strained attention, and then he smiled.

"White man come from ze sout'. Mais, oui! He come, sure t'ing."

Lane nodded.

"I guess he's right. I can hear it now; but I can't figure on the kind of outfit."

Then Blake heard a sound which puzzled him. It was not the quick patter of a dog team, nor the sliding fall of netted shoes. The noise was dull and heavy, and as the snow would deaden it, whoever was coming could not be far away.

"Bob-sled!" Emile exclaimed with scorn. "V'la la belle chose! Arrive ze great horse of ze plow."

"The fellow's sure a farmer, coming up with a Clydesdale team," Lane laughed. "One wouldn't have much trouble in following his trail."

A few minutes later three men appeared, carefully leading two big horses through the trees.

"Saw your fire a piece back," said one, when they had hauled up a clumsy sled. "I'm mighty glad to find you, Blake; we were wondering how far we might have to go."

"Then you came up after me, Tom?" exclaimed Blake. "You wouldn't have got much farther with that team; but who sent you?"

"I don't quite know. It seems that Gardner got orders from somebody that you were to be found, and he hired me and the boys. We had trouble in getting here, but we allowed we could bring up more grub and blankets on the sled, and we could send Jake back with the team when we struck the thick bush. Then we were going to make a cache, and pack along as much stuff as we could carry. But I have a letter which may tell you something."

Blake opened it, and Harding noticed that his face grew intent; but he put the letter into his pocket and turned to the man.

"It's from a friend in England," he said. "You were lucky in finding me, and we'll go back together in the morning."

After attending to their horses, the new arrivals joined the others at the fire, and explained that at the hotel-keeper's suggestion they had meant to head for the Indian village, and make inquiries on their way up at the logging camp. Though Blake talked to them, he had a preoccupied look, and Harding knew that he was thinking of the letter. He had, however, no opportunity for questioning him, and he waited until the next day, when Emile, whom they were helping, chose a shorter way across a ravine than that taken by the police and the men with the bob-sled. When they reached the bottom of the hollow, Blake told the half-breed to stop, and he took his comrades aside.

"There's something I must tell you," he said. "It was Colonel Challoner who sent the boys up from the settlement with food for us, and he begs me to come home at once. That's a point on which I'd like your opinion; but you shall hear what he has to say."

Sitting down on a log, he began to read from his letter:

"'A man named Clarke, whom you have evidently met, lately called on me and suggested an explanation of the Indian affair. As the price of his keeping silence on the subject, he demanded that I should take a number of shares in a syndicate he is forming for the exploitation of some petroleum wells.'"

"It was a good offer," Harding interrupted. "Clarke must have had reason for believing he was about to make a big strike; he'd have kept quiet until he was sure of it."

"'The fellow's story was plausible,'" Blake continued reading. "'It seems possible that you have been badly wronged; and I have been troubled——'" He omitted the next few lines, and went on: "'After giving the matter careful thought, I feel that the man may have hit upon the truth. It would, of course, afford me the keenest satisfaction to see you cleared, but the thing must be thoroughly sifted, because——'"

Blake stopped and added quietly:

"He insists on my going home."

"His difficulty is obvious," Benson remarked. "If you are blameless, his son must be guilty."

Blake did not answer, but sat musing with a disturbed expression. There was now no sign of the men with the bob-sled, and no sound reached them from the plain above. Emile stood patiently waiting some distance off, and though they were sheltered from the wind it was bitterly cold.

"In some ways, it might be better if I went home at once," Blake said at last. "I could come back and join you as soon as I saw how things were going. The Colonel would feel easier if I were with him; but, all the same, I'm inclined to stay away."

"Why?" Harding asked.

"For one thing, if I were there, he might insist on taking some quite unnecessary course that would only cause trouble."

"I'm going to give you my opinion," said Harding curtly. "I take it that your uncle is a man who tries to do the square thing?"

Blake's face relaxed and his eyes twinkled.

"He's what you call white, and as obstinate as they're made. Convince him that a thing's right and he'll see it done, no matter how many people it makes uncomfortable. That's why I don't see my way to encourage him."

"Here's a man who's up against a point of honor; he has, I understand, a long, clean record, and now he's prepared to take a course that may cost him dear. Are you going to play a low-down game on him; to twist the truth so's to give him a chance for deceiving himself?"

"Aren't you and Benson taking what you mean by the truth too much for granted?"

Harding gave him a searching look.

"I haven't heard you deny it squarely; you're a poor liar. It's your clear duty to go back to England right away, and see your uncle through with the thing he means to do."

"After all, I'll go to England," Blake answered with significant reserve. "However, we'd better get on, or we won't catch the others until they've finished dinner."

Emile started the dogs, and when they had toiled up the ascent they saw the men with the bob-sled far ahead on the great white plain.

"We may not have another chance for a private talk until we reach the settlement," Blake said. "What are you going to do about the petroleum?"

"I'll come back and prospect the muskeg as soon as the frost goes," Harding answered promptly.

"It will cost a good deal to do that thoroughly. We must hire transport for a full supply of all the tools and food we are likely to need; one experience of the kind we've had this trip is enough. How are you going to get the money?"

"I'm not going to the city men for it until our position's secure. The thing must be kept quiet until we're ready to put it on the market."

"You were doubtful about taking me for a partner once," Benson interposed. "I don't know that I could blame you; but now I mean to do all I can to make the scheme successful, and I don't think you'll have as much reason for being afraid that I might fail you."

"Call it a deal," said Harding. "You're the man we want."

"I ought to be back before you start," Blake said; "and if I can raise any money in England I'll send it over. You're satisfied that this is a project I can recommend to my friends?"

"I believe it's such a chance as few people ever get," Harding answered in a tone of firm conviction.

"Then we'll see what can be done. It won't be your fault if the venture fails."

Harding smiled.

"There's hard work and perhaps some trouble ahead, but you won't regret you faced it. You'll be a rich man in another year or two!"

Blake smiled at his enthusiasm.

"Emile and the dogs are leaving us behind," he said. "We'll have to hustle!"



CHAPTER XXII

THE GIRL AND THE MAN

It was a clear winter afternoon and the sunshine that entered a window of the big hall at Hazlehurst fell upon Millicent as she sat in one of the recesses reading a book. Blake thought she looked very beautiful. As she raised her eyes and caught sight of him she started, and, dropping the book, she rose with a tingle of heightened color, while Blake felt his heart beat fast. Thrown off her guard as she had been, he caught the gladness in her eyes before she could hide it.

"You are surprised at my turning up?" he asked, holding her hand an unnecessarily long time and smiling into her eyes.

The color was still in Millicent's cheeks and she was conscious of an unusual shyness; but she tried to answer naturally.

"I knew that Colonel Challoner had given orders for you to be traced, if possible, and I knew that you had been found; but that was all Mrs. Keith told me. I suppose she didn't know—didn't think, I mean—that I was interested."

"I shall believe that was very foolish of her," Blake said softly, with a question in his voice.

Millicent smiled.

"It really was foolish. But you must have some tea and wait until she comes. I don't think she will be long. She has gone out with Mrs. Foster."

The tea was brought in and Millicent studied Blake unobtrusively as he sat opposite her at the small table. He had grown thin, his bronzed face was worn, and he looked graver. She could not imagine his ever becoming very solemn, but it was obvious that something had happened in Canada which had had its effects on him.

Looking up suddenly, Blake surprised her attentive glance.

"You have changed," she said.

"That's not astonishing," Blake laughed. "We didn't get much to eat in the wilds, and I was thinking how pleasant it is to be back again." He examined his prettily decorated cup. "It's remarkable how many things one can do without. In the bush, we drank our tea, when we had any, out of a blackened can, and the rest of our table equipment was similar. But we'll take it that the change in me is an improvement?"

It was an excuse for looking at her, as if demanding a reply, but she answered readily.

"In a sense, it is."

"Then I feel encouraged to continue starving myself."

"There's a limit; extremes are to be avoided. But did you starve yourselves in Canada?"

"I must confess that the thing wasn't altogether voluntary. I'm afraid we were rather gluttonous when we got the chance."

He smiled, but Millicent's eyes were full of compassion.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" she asked softly.

"No; I think it was a serious disappointment for Harding, and I was very sorry for him at first."

"So am I," Millicent responded. "It must have been very hard, after leaving his wife alone and badly provided for and risking everything on his success. But why did you say you were sorry for him? Aren't you sorry now?"

"Though we didn't find what we were looking for, we found something else which Harding seems firmly convinced is quite as valuable. Of course, he's a bit of an optimist, but it looks as if he were right this time. Anyway, I'm plunging on his scheme."

"You mean you will stake all you have on it?"

"Yes," Blake answered with a humorous twinkle. "It's true that what I have doesn't amount to much, but I'm throwing in what I should like to get—and that's a great deal."

Millicent noticed his expression suddenly grow serious.

"Tell me about your adventures up in that wilderness," she begged.

"Oh," he protested, "they're really not interesting."

"Let me judge. Is it nothing to have gone where other men seldom venture?"

He began rather awkwardly, but she prompted him with tactful questions, and he saw that she wished to hear his story. By degrees he lost himself in his subject, and, being gifted with keen imagination, she followed his journey into the wilds. It was not his wish to represent himself as a hero, and now and then he spoke with deprecatory humor, but he betrayed something of his character in doing justice to his theme. Millicent's eyes sparkled as she listened, for she found the story moving; he was the man she had thought him, capable of grim endurance, determined action, and steadfast loyalty.

"So you carried your crippled comrade when you were exhausted and starving," she exclaimed, when he came to their search for the factory. "One likes to hear of such things as that! But what would you have done if you hadn't found the post?"

"I can't answer," he said soberly. "We didn't dare think, of it: a starving man's will gets weak." Then his expression grew whimsical. "Besides, if one must be accurate, we dragged him."

"Still," said Millicent softly, "I can't think you would have left him."

Something in her voice made Blake catch his breath. She looked very alluring as she sat there with the last of the sunshine sprinkling gold over her hair and her face and her light gown. He leaned forward quickly; and then he remembered his disgrace.

"I'm flattered, Miss Graham," he said; "but you really haven't very strong grounds for your confidence in me."

"Please go on with your story," Millicent begged, disregarding his remark. "How long did you stay at the factory?"

Blake told of their journey back, of the days when starvation faced them, and of the blizzard, though he made no reference to Clarke's treachery; and Millicent listened with close attention. It grew dark but they forgot to ring for lights; neither of them heard the door open when he was near the conclusion, nor saw Mrs. Keith, entering quietly with Mrs. Foster, stop a moment in surprise. The room was shadowy, but Mrs. Keith could see the man leaning forward with an arm on the table and the girl listening with intent face. There was something that pleased her in the scene.

As Mrs. Keith moved forward, Millicent looked up quickly and Blake rose.

"So you have come back!" Mrs. Keith said. "How was it you didn't go straight to Sandymere, where your uncle is eagerly awaiting you?"

"I sent him a cablegram just before I sailed, but on landing I found there was an earlier train. As he won't expect me for another two hours, I thought I'd like to pay my respects to you."

Mrs. Keith smiled as she glanced at Millicent.

"Well, I'm flattered," she responded; "and, as it happens, I have something to say to you."

Mrs. Foster joined them, and it was some time before Mrs. Keith had a chance to take Blake into the empty drawing-room.

"I'm glad you have come home," she said abruptly. "I think you are needed."

"That," replied Blake, "is how it seemed to me."

His quietness was reassuring. Mrs. Keith knew that he was to be trusted, but she felt some misgivings about supporting him in a line of action that would cost him much. Still, she could not be deterred by compassionate scruples when there was an opportunity for saving her old friend from suffering. Troubled by a certain sense of guilt, but determined, she tried to test his feelings.

"You didn't find waiting for us tedious," she said lightly. "I suppose you and Millicent were deep in your adventures when we came in—playing Othello and Desdemona."

Blake laughed.

"As you compare me to the Moor, you must admit that I have never pretended to be less black than I'm painted."

"Ah!" Mrs. Keith exclaimed with marked gentleness. "You needn't pretend to me, Dick. I have my own opinion about you. I knew you would come home as soon as you could be found."

"Then you must know what has been going on in my absence."

"I have a strong suspicion. Your uncle has been hard pressed by unscrupulous people with an end to gain. How much impression they have made on him I cannot tell; but he's fond of you, Dick, and in trouble. It's a cruel position for an honorable man with traditions like those of the Challoners' behind him."

"That's true; I hate to think of it. You know what I owe to him and Bertram."

"He's old," continued Mrs. Keith. "It would be a great thing if he could be allowed to spend his last years in quietness. I fear that's impossible, although perhaps to some extent it lies in your hands." She looked steadily at Blake. "Now that you have come back, what do you mean to do?"

"Whatever is needful; I'm for the defense. The Colonel's position can't be stormed while I'm on guard; and this time there'll be no retreat."

"Don't add that, Dick; it hurts me. I'm not so hard as I sometimes pretend. I never doubted your staunchness; but I wonder whether you quite realize what the defense may cost you. Have you thought about your future?"

"You ought to know that the Blakes never think of the future. We're a happy-go-lucky, irresponsible lot."

"But suppose you wished to marry?"

"It's a difficulty that has already been pointed out. If I ever marry, the girl I choose will believe in me in spite of appearances. In fact, she'll have to: I have no medals and decorations to bring her."

"You have much that's worth more!" Mrs. Keith declared warmly, moved by his steadfastness. "Still, it's a severe test for any girl." She laid her hand gently on his arm. "In the end, you won't regret the course you mean to take. I have lived a long while and have lost many pleasant illusions, but I believe that loyalty like yours has its reward. I loved you for your mother's sake when you were a boy; afterward when things looked blackest I kept my faith in you, and now I'm proud that I did so."

Blake looked confused.

"Confidence like yours is an embarrassing gift. It makes one feel that one must live up to it; and that isn't easy."

Mrs. Keith regarded him affectionately.

"It's yours, Dick; given without reserve. But I think there's nothing more to be said; and the Colonel will be expecting you."

They moved toward the hall as she spoke; and when Blake had gone Mrs. Keith looked searchingly at Millicent. The girl's face shone with a happiness which she could not conceal: she knew that Blake loved her; and she knew, too, that she loved Blake; but she was not ready to admit this to Mrs. Keith.



CHAPTER XXIII

SOLVING THE PROBLEM

Dinner was finished at Sandymere, Miss Challoner had gone out, and, in accordance with ancient custom, the cloth had been removed from the great mahogany table. Its glistening surface was broken only by a decanter, two choice wine-glasses, and a tall silver candlestick. Lighting a cigar, Blake looked about while he braced himself for the ordeal that must be faced.

He knew the big room well, but its air of solemnity, with which the heavy Georgian furniture was in keeping, impressed him. The ceiling had been decorated by a French artist of the eighteenth century, and the faded delicacy of the design, bearing as it did the stamp of its period, helped to give the place a look of age. Challoner could trace his descent much farther than his house and furniture suggested, but the family had first come to the front in the East India Company's wars, and while maintaining its position afterward had escaped the modernizing influence of the country's awakening in the early Victorian days.

It seemed to Blake, fresh from the new and democratic West, that his uncle, shrewd and well-informed man as he was, was very much of the type of Wellington's officers. For all that he pitied him. Challoner looked old and worn, and round his eyes there were wrinkles that hinted at anxious thought. His life was lonely; his unmarried sister, who spent much of her time in visits, was the only relative who shared his home. Now that age was limiting his activities and interests, he had one great source of gratification: the career of the soldier son who was worthily following in his steps. His nephew determined that this should be saved for him, as he remembered the benefits he had received at the Colonel's hands.

"Dick," Challoner said earnestly, "I'm very glad to see you home. I should like to think you have come to stay."

"Thank you, sir. I'll stay as long as you need me.

"I feel that I need you altogether. It's now doubtful whether Bertram will leave India, after all. His regiment has been ordered into the hills, where there's serious trouble brewing, and he has asked permission to remain. Even if he comes home, he will have many duties, and I have nobody left."

Blake did not answer immediately, and his uncle studied him. Dick had grown thin, but he looked very strong, and the evening dress set off his fine, muscular figure. His face was still somewhat pinched, but its deep bronze and the steadiness of his eyes and the firmness of his lips gave him a very soldierly look and a certain air of distinction. There was no doubt that he was true to the Challoner type.

"I must go back sooner or later," Blake said slowly; "there is an engagement I am bound to keep. Besides, your pressing me to stay raises a question. The last time we met you acquiesced in my decision that I had better keep out of the country, and I see no reason for changing it."

"The question must certainly be raised; that is why I sent for you. You can understand my anxiety to learn what truth there is in the story I have heard."

"It might be better if you told me all about it."

"Very well; the task is painful, but it can't be shirked."

Challoner carefully outlined Clarke's theory of what had happened during the night attack, and Blake listened quietly.

"Of course," Challoner concluded, "the man had an obvious end to serve, and I dare say he was capable of misrepresenting things to suit it. I'll confess that I found the thought comforting; but I want the truth, Dick. I must do what's right."

"Clarke once approached me about the matter, but he will never trouble either of us again. I helped to bury him up in the wilds."

"Dead!" exclaimed Challoner.

"Frozen. In fact, it was not his fault that we escaped his fate. He set a trap for us, intending that we should starve."

"But why?"

"His motive was obvious. There was a man with us whose farm and stock would, in the event of his death, fall into Clarke's hands; and it's clear that I was a serious obstacle in his way. Can't you see that he couldn't use his absurd story to bleed you unless I supported it?"

Challoner felt the force of this. He was a shrewd man, but just then he was too disturbed to reason closely and he failed to perceive that his nephew's refusal to confirm the story did not necessarily disprove it. That Clarke had thought it worth while to attempt his life bulked most largely in his uncle's eyes.

"He urged me to take some shares in a petroleum syndicate," he said.

"Then, I believe you missed a good thing." Blake seized upon the change of topic. "The shares would probably have paid you well. He found the oil, and put us on the track of it, though of course he didn't have any wish to do that. We expect to make a good deal out of the discovery."

"It looks like justice," Challoner declared. "But we are getting away from the point. I'd better tell you that after my talk with the man, I felt that he might be dangerous and that I must send for you."

"Why didn't you send for Bertram?"

Challoner hesitated.

"When I cabled out instructions to find you, there was no word of his leaving India; then, you must see how hard it would have been to hint at my suspicions. It would have opened a breach between us that could never be closed."

"Yes," said Blake, leaning forward on the table and speaking earnestly, "your reluctance was very natural. I'm afraid of presuming too far, but I can't understand how you could believe this thing of your only son."

"It lies between my son and my nephew, Dick." There was emotion in the Colonel's voice. "I had a great liking for your father, and I brought you up. Then I took a keen pride in you; there were respects in which I found you truer to our type than Bertram."

"You heaped favors on me," Blake replied. "That I bitterly disappointed you has been my deepest shame; in fact, it's the one thing that counts. For the rest, I can't regret the friends who turned their backs on me; and poverty never troubled the Blakes."

"But the taint—the stain on your name!"

"I have the advantage of bearing it alone, and, to tell the truth, it doesn't bother me much. That a man should go straight in the present is all they ask in Canada, and homeless adventurers with no possessions—the kind of comrades I've generally met—are charitable. As a rule, it wouldn't become them to be fastidious. Anyway, sir, you must see the absurdity of believing that Bertram could have failed in his duty in the way the tale suggests."

"I once felt that strongly; the trouble is that the objection applies with equal force to you. Do you deny the story this man told me?"

Blake felt that his task was hard. He had to convict himself, and he must do so logically: Challoner was by no means a fool. As he nerved himself to the effort he was conscious of a rather grim amusement.

"I think it would be better if I tried to show you how the attack was made. Is the old set of Indian chessmen still in the drawer?"

"I believe so. It must be twenty years since they were taken out. It's strange you should remember them."

A stirring of half-painful emotions troubled Blake. He loved the old house and all that it contained and had a deep-seated pride in the Challoner traditions. Now he must make the Colonel believe that he was a degenerate scion of the honored stock and could have no part in them.

"I have forgotten nothing at Sandymere; but we must stick to the subject." Crossing the floor he came back with the chessmen, which he carefully arranged, setting up the white pawns in two separate ranks to represent bodies of infantry, with the knights and bishops for officers. The colored pieces he placed in an irregular mass.

"Now," he began, "this represents the disposition of our force pretty well. I was here, at the top of the ravine"—he laid a cigar on the table to indicate the spot—"Bertram on the ridge yonder. This bunch of red pawns stands for the Ghazee rush."

"It agrees with what I've heard," said Challoner, surveying the roughly marked scene of battle with critical eyes. "You were weak in numbers, but your position was strong. It could have been held!"

Blake began to move the pieces.

"The Ghazees rolled straight over our first line; my mine, which might have checked them, wouldn't go off—a broken circuit in the firing wires, I suppose. We were hustled out of the trenches; it was too dark for effective rifle fire."

"The trench the second detachment held should have been difficult to rush!"

"But," Blake insisted, "you must remember that the beggars were Ghazees; they're hard to stop. Then, our men were worn out and had been sniped every night for the last week or two. However, the bugler's the key to my explanation; I'll put this dab of cigar ash here to represent him. This bishop's Bertram, and you can judge by the distance whether the fellow could have heard the order to blow, 'Cease fire,' through the row that was going on."

He resumed his quick moving of the chessmen, accompanying it by a running commentary.

"Here's another weak point in the tale, which must be obvious to any one who has handled troops; these fellows couldn't have gained a footing in this hollow because it was raked by our fire. There was no cover and the range was short. Then, you see the folly of believing that the section with which the bugler was could have moved along the ridge; they couldn't have crossed between the Ghazees and the trench. They'd have been exposed to our own fire in the rear."

He added more to much the same effect, and then swept the chessmen up into a heap and looked at his companion.

"I think you ought to be convinced," he said.

"It all turns upon the bugler's movements," Challoner contended.

"And he was killed. I've tried to show you that he couldn't have been where Clarke's account had him."

Challoner was silent for a while, and Blake watched him anxiously until he looked up.

"I think you have succeeded, Dick, though I feel that with a trifling alteration here and there you could have cleared yourself. Now we'll let the painful matter drop for good; unless, indeed, some fresh light is ever thrown on it."

"That can't happen," Blake declared staunchly.

Challoner rose and laid a hand on his arm. "If you were once at fault, you have since shown yourself a man of honor. Though the thing hurt me at the time, I'm glad you are my nephew. Had there been any baseness in you, some suspicion must always have rested on your cousin. Well, we are neither of us sentimentalists, but I must say that you have amply made amends."

He turned away and Blake went out into the open air to walk up and down. The face of the old house rose above him, dark against the clear night sky; in front the great oaks in the park rolled back in shadowy masses. Blake loved Sandymere; he had thought of it often in his wanderings, and now he was glad that through his action his cousin would enjoy it without reproach. After all, it was some return to make for the favors he had received. For himself there remained the charm of the lonely trail and the wide wilderness.

For all that, he had been badly tempted. Poverty and disgrace were serious obstacles to marriage, and had he been free to do so, he would eagerly have sought the hand of Millicent Graham. It was hard to hold his longing for her in check. However, Harding was confident that they were going to be rich, and that would remove one of his disadvantages. Thinking about the girl tenderly, he walked up and down the terrace until he grew calm, and then he went in to talk to Miss Challoner.



CHAPTER XXIV

A WOMAN'S ADVICE

A fortnight later, Blake met Millicent in a fieldpath and turned back with her to Hazlehurst. It was a raw day and the wind had brought a fine color into the girl's face, and she wore a little fur cap and fur-trimmed jacket which he thought became her very well.

"You have not been over often," she said; "Mr. Foster was remarking about it."

Blake had kept away for fear of his resolution melting if he saw much of her.

"My uncle seems to think he has a prior claim," he explained; "and I may not be able to stay with him long."

"You are going back to Canada?" The quick way the girl looked up, and something in her tone, suggested unpleasant surprise, for she had been taken off her guard.

"I shall have to go when Harding needs me. I haven't heard from him since I arrived, but I'll get my summons sooner or later."

"I thought you had come home for good!" Millicent's color deepened, and she added quickly: "Do you like the life in the Northwest?"

"It has its charm. There are very few restrictions—one feels free. The fences haven't reached us yet; you can ride as far as you can see over miles of grass and through the clumps of bush. There's something attractive in the wide horizon; the riband of trail that seems to run forward forever draws you on."

"But the arctic frost and the snow?"

"After all, they're bracing. Our board shacks with the big stoves in them are fairly warm; and no one can tell what developments may suddenly come about in such a country. A railroad may be run through, wheat-land opened up, minerals found, and wooden cities spring up from the empty plain. Life's rapid and strenuous; one is swept along with the stream."

"But you were in the wilds!"

Blake laughed.

"We were indeed; but not far behind us the tide of population pours across the plain, and if we had stayed a year or two in the timber, it would have caught us up. That flood won't stop until it reaches the Polar Sea."

"But how can people live in a rugged land covered with snow that melts only for a month or two?"

"The climate doesn't count, so long as the country has natural resources. One hears of precious metals, and some are being mined." He paused and added in a tone of humorous confidence: "My partner believes in oil."

They were now close to Hazlehurst, and as they left the highway Mrs. Keith joined them.

"Dick," she said, laying her hand affectionately on his arm, "I have had a talk with your uncle. You have convinced him thoroughly, and have taken a great load off his mind." Admiration shone in her eyes. "None of the Challoners ever did so fine a thing, Dick!"

Blake felt embarrassed, and Millicent's face glowed with pride in him. No further reference was made to the subject, however, and he spent a pleasant hour in, the great hall at Hazlehurst, where Mrs. Keith left him with Millicent when tea was brought in.

That night Blake sat with Challoner in the library at Sandymere. The Colonel was in a big leather chair near a good fire, but he had a heavy rug wrapped about him, and it struck Blake that he looked ill.

He turned and regarded Blake affectionately.

"You have been a good nephew, Dick, and since you came home I have felt that I ought to make some provision for you. That, of course, was my intention when you were young, but when the break occurred you cut yourself adrift and refused assistance."

Blake colored, for there were, he thought, adequate reasons why he should take no further favors from his uncle. If the truth about the frontier affair ever came out, it would look as if he had valued his honor less than the money he could extort and the Colonel would bear the stigma of having bought his silence.

"I'm grateful, sir, but I must still refuse," he said. "I'm glad you made me the offer, because it shows I haven't forfeited your regard; but I'm sorry I cannot consent."

"Have you any plan for the future?"

"My partner has," Blake answered, smiling. "I leave that kind of thing to him. I told you about the oil."

"Yes; and Clarke had something to say on the subject. However, he gave me to understand that capital was needed."

"That is true," Blake replied unguardedly, for he did not see where his uncle's remark led. "Boring plant is expensive, and transport costs something. Then you have to spend a good deal beforehand if you wish to float a company."

"But you believe this venture will pay you?"

"Harding is convinced of it; and he's shrewd. Personally, I don't know enough about the business to judge, but if I had any money to risk I'd take his word for it."

Challoner made no reply; and when Blake left him he grew thoughtful. His nephew's demonstration with the chessmen had lifted a weight off his mind, but he was troubled by a doubt about the absolute correctness of his explanation. Moreover, when he dwelt upon it, the doubt gathered strength; but there was nothing that he could do: Dick obviously meant to stick to his story, and Bertram could not be questioned.

In the meanwhile, Blake sought Miss Challoner.

"I don't think my uncle's looking well. Mightn't it be better to send for Dr. Onslow?" he said.

"He wouldn't be pleased," Miss Challoner answered dubiously. "Still, he sometimes enjoys a talk with Onslow, who's a tactful man. If he looked in, as it were, casually——"

"Yes," assented Blake; "we'll give him a hint. I'll send the groom with a note at once."

The doctor came, and left without expressing any clear opinion, but when he returned the next day he ordered Challoner to bed and told Blake he feared a sharp attack of pneumonia. His fears were justified, for it was several weeks before Challoner was able to leave his room. During his illness he insisted on his nephew's company whenever the nurses would allow it, and when he began to recover, he again begged him to remain at Sandymere. He had come to lean upon the younger man and he entrusted him with all the business of the estate, which he no longer was able to attend to.

"Dick," he said one day, when Blake thought he was too ill to perceive that he was casting a reflection on his son, "I wish my personal means were larger, so that I could give Bertram enough and leave Sandymere to you; then I'd know the place would be in good hands. On the surface, you're a happy-go-lucky fellow; but that's deceptive. In reality, you have a surprising grip of things—however, you know my opinion of you. But you won't go away, Dick?"

The nurse interrupted them, and Blake was glad that he had written to Harding stating his inability to rejoin him. A week or two later he had received a cable message: "No hurry."

When spring came he was still at Sandymere, for Challoner got better very slowly and would not let his nephew go. Blake saw Millicent frequently during those days. At first he felt that it was a weakness, as he had nothing to offer her except a tainted name; but his love was getting beyond control, and his resistance feebler. After all, he thought, the story of the Indian disaster must be almost forgotten; and Harding had a good chance for finding the oil. If he had not already started for the North, he would do so soon; but Blake had had no news from him since his cabled message.

Then, after a quiet month, Blake suggested that as the Colonel was getting stronger again he ought to go back to Canada.

"If you feel that you must go, I'll have to consent," Challoner said.

"I have a duty to my partner. It's probable that he has already set off, but I know where to find him, and there'll be plenty to do. For one thing, as transport is expensive, we'll have to relay our supplies over very rough country, and that means the same stage several times. Then, I don't suppose Harding will have been able to buy very efficient boring plant."

"He may have done better than you imagine," Challoner suggested with a smile. "A man as capable as he seems to be would somehow get hold of what was needful."

Blake was surprised at this, because his uncle understood their financial difficulties.

"Well, there's a fast boat next Saturday," he said. "I think I'll go by her."

"Wait another week, to please me," Challoner urged him. "You have had a dull time since I've been ill, and now I'd like you to get about. I shall miss you badly, Dick."

Blake agreed. He felt that he ought to have sailed earlier, but the temptation to remain was strong. He now met Millicent every day, and it might be a very long time before he returned to England. He feared that he was laying up trouble for himself, but he recklessly determined to make the most of the present, and, in spite of his misgivings, the next eight or nine days brought him many delightful hours. Now that she knew he was going, Millicent abandoned the reserve she had sometimes shown. She was sympathetic, interested in his plans, and, he thought, altogether charming. They were rapidly drawn closer together, and the more he learned of her character, the stronger his admiration grew. At times he imagined he noticed a tender shyness in her manner, and though it delighted him he afterward took himself to task. He was not acting honorably; he had no right to win this girl's love, as he was trying to do; but there was the excuse that she knew his history and it had not made her cold to him.

Mrs. Keith looked on with observant eyes. She had grown very fond of her companion and she made many opportunities for throwing the two together. One afternoon a day or two before Blake's departure she called Millicent into her room.

"Have you ever thought about your future?" she asked her abruptly.

"Not often since I have been with you," Millicent answered. "Before that it used to trouble me."

"Then I'm afraid you're imprudent. You have no relatives you could look to for help, and while my health is pretty good I can't, of course, live for ever. I might leave you something, but it would not be much, because my property is earmarked for a particular purpose."

Millicent wondered where this led, but Mrs. Keith went on abruptly:

"As you have found out, I am a frank old woman and not afraid to say what I think. Now, I want to ask you a question. If you liked a man who was far from rich, would you marry him?"

"It would depend," Millicent replied, with the color flaming up in her cheeks. "Why do you ask? I can't give you a general answer."

"Then give me a particular one; I want to know."

The girl was embarrassed, but she had learned that her employer was not to be put off easily.

"I suppose his being poor wouldn't daunt me, if I loved him enough."

"Then we'll suppose something else. If he had done something to be ashamed of?"

Millicent looked up with a flash in her eyes.

"People are so ready to believe the worst! He did nothing that he need blush for—that's impossible!" Then she saw the trap into which her generous indignation had led her, but instead of looking down in confusion she boldly faced Mrs. Keith. "Yes," she added, "if he wanted me, I would marry him in spite of what people are foolish enough to think."

"And you would not regret it." Mrs. Keith laid her hand on the girl's arm with a caressing touch. "My dear, if you value your happiness, you will tell him so. Remember that he is going away in a day or two."

"How can I tell him?" Millicent cried with burning face. "I only—I mean you tricked me into telling you."

"It shouldn't be difficult to give him a tactful hint, and that wouldn't be a remarkably unusual course," Mrs. Keith smiled. "The idea that a proposal comes quite spontaneously is to some extent a convention nowadays. I don't suppose you need reminding that we dine at Sandymere to-morrow."

Millicent made no reply; she seemed rather overwhelmed by her employer's frankness, and Mrs. Keith took pity on her and let her go, with a final bit of advice:

"Think over what I told you!"

Millicent thought of nothing else. She knew that Blake loved her and she believed that she understood why he had not declared himself. Now he might go away without speaking. It was hateful to feel that she must make the first advances and reveal her tenderness for him. She felt that she could not do so; and, yet, the alternative seemed worse.



CHAPTER XXV

LOVE AND VICTORY

Millicent accompanied Mrs. Keith to Sandymere in a troubled mood; and dinner was a trying function. She sat next to Foster, and she found it hard to smile at his jokes; and she noticed that Blake was unusually quiet. It was his last evening in England.

When they went into the drawing-room Challoner sat talking with her for a while, and then she was asked to sing. An hour passed before Blake had an opportunity for exchanging a word with her.

"They'll make you sing again if you stay here," he said softly.

She understood that he wanted her to himself, and she thrilled at something in his voice.

"You're interested in Eastern brasswork, I think?" he went on.

"I hardly know," said Millicent. "I haven't seen much of it."

She was vexed with herself for her prudish weakness. An opportunity that might never be repeated was offered her, and she could not muster the courage to seize it. Blake, however, did not seem daunted.

"You said you were delighted with the things my uncle showed you the last time you were here, and a friend has just sent him a fresh lot from Benares." He gave her an appealing look. "It struck me you might like to see them."

The blood crept up into Millicent's face, but she answered with forced calm:

"Yes; I really think I should."

"Will you give me the key to the Indian collection?" Blake asked Challoner.

"Here it is," said the Colonel; and then turned to Mrs. Keith. "That reminds me, you haven't seen my new treasures yet. Dryhurst has lately sent me some rather good things; among others, there's a small Buddha, exquisitely carved. Shall we go and look at them?"

Mrs. Keith felt angry with him for a marplot.

"Wouldn't it be better to wait until I'm here in the daylight? If I try to examine anything closely with these spectacles, they strain my eyes."

"I've had a new lamp placed in front of the case," Challoner persisted; and Mrs. Keith found it hard to forgive him for his obtuseness.

"Very well," she said in a resigned tone; and when Millicent and Blake had gone out she walked slowly to the door with Challoner.

They were half-way up the staircase, which led rather sharply from the hall, when she stopped and grasped the banister.

"It's obvious that you have recovered," she said.

"I certainly feel much better; but what prompted your remark?"

"These stairs. You don't seem to feel them, but if you expect me to run up and down, you'll have to make them shallower and less steep. I've been up twice since I came. I must confess to a weakness in my knee."

Challoner gave her a sharp glance.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Mrs. Foster mentioned something about your not walking much; I should have remembered."

"It's the weather; I find the damp troublesome. If you don't mind, I think we'll go down."

Challoner gave her his arm, and Millicent, standing in the picture gallery, noticed their return. She suspected that it was the result of some maneuver of Mrs. Keith's intended for her advantage, and she tried to summon her resolution. The man she loved would sail the next day, believing that his poverty and the stain he had not earned must stand between them, unless she could force herself to give him a hint to the contrary. This was the only sensible course, but she timidly shrank from it.

Blake unlocked a glass case and, taking out two shelves, he carefully laid them on a table.

"There they are," he said with a rather nervous smile. "I've no doubt the things are interesting, and if our friends come up they can look at them. But it wasn't Benares brassware that brought me up here."

"Wasn't it?" Millicent asked demurely.

"Certainly not! One couldn't talk with Foster enlarging upon the only rational way of rearing pheasants!" He paused a moment. "You know I'm going away the first thing to-morrow," he added softly.

"Yes; I know. I'm sorry."

"Truly sorry? You mean that?"

He gave her a searching glance and then laid his hand on her shoulder, holding her a little away from him.

"Dear little girl," he said, "you don't know what a struggle it is between the knowledge of the duty I owe you and my own selfish longing—my uncontrollable longing for you. You are very young and beautiful, and I love you—but I am a broken man."

"Does that matter, when it is through no fault of yours?" She smiled up at him as she spoke.

For one instant he hesitated; then, all his good resolutions forgotten, he gathered the girl in his arms.

"Millicent!" he breathed. Then, after a long silence: "We'll laugh at cold-blooded prudence and take our chances. It's a wide world, and we'll find a nook; somewhere if we go out and look for it. All my care will be to smooth the trail for you, dear."

They spent a half-hour in happy talk, and Blake murmured when Millicent protested that they must go back; and she feared that her lover's exultant air would betray them as they entered the drawing-room.

"Where's the key?" Challoner asked.

"I'm afraid I forgot it, sir," Blake confessed. "Very sorry, but I'm not even sure I put the things away."

Challoner rang a bell and gave an order to a servant.

"Did you see the Buddha?" he asked Millicent.

"No," she said. "I don't think so."

"Or the brass plate with the fantastic serpent pattern round the rim?"

"I'm afraid I didn't," Millicent answered in confusion.

Challoner looked hard at Blake, and then his eyes twinkled.

"Well," he laughed, "perhaps it wasn't to be expected."

There was a moment's silence. Millicent looked down with the color in her face; Blake stood very straight, smiling at the others.

"We are all friends here," he said, "and I'm proud to announce that Millicent has promised to marry me as soon as I return from Canada." He bowed to Mrs. Keith and the Colonel. "As you have taken her guardian's place, madam, and you, sir, are the head of the house, I should like to think we have your approval."

"How formal, Dick!" Mrs. Keith laughed. "I imagine that my consent is very much a matter of form, but I give it with the greatest satisfaction."

Challoner put one arm round Millicent.

"My dear, I am very glad, and I think Dick has shown great wisdom. I wish you both all happiness."

Mrs. Foster and her husband offered their congratulations, and for the next hour they discussed Blake's future plans. Then they were interrupted by the entrance of a servant with a small silver tray.

"Cablegram, sir, for Mr. Blake," he said. "Hopkins was at the post-office, and they gave it to him."

Blake took the envelope and looked at Miss Challoner for permission to open it. When he had read it, he started, and gave the cablegram to Millicent.

"Oh, Dick!" she cried with sparkling eyes. "How splendid!"

Blake explained to the others.

"It's from my partner in Canada, and I'm sure you'll be interested to bear it." He read the message aloud: "'Come. Struck it. Tell Challoner.'"

He folded the paper and replaced it in its envelope. "I don't understand the last part of it," he said to Challoner. "Why does he wish you to know?"

The Colonel chuckled.

"I sent Mr. Harding five hundred pounds to buy anything he needed for his prospecting, and told him to give me an option on a good block of shares in the new syndicate at par. You're very independent, Dick, but I can't see why you should object to your relatives putting money into what looks like a promising thing."

"I've no doubt it was mainly through your help that Harding found the oil," Blake said gratefully.

Soon afterward the Fosters rose to go, but they waited a few moments in the hall while Millicent lingered with Blake in the drawing-room.

"Dick," she said, blushing in a way that he thought quite charming, "you made a rash statement. I didn't really promise to marry you as soon as you came back."

"Then it was understood," Blake answered firmly. "And I shan't let you off."

"Well, if it will bring you home any quicker, dear! But how long must you stay?"

"I can't tell; there may be much to do. If Harding needs me, I must see him out. But I won't delay a minute more than's needful, you may be sure! You know we may have to live in Canada?"

"I won't object. Where you are will be home," she said shyly; and once more he gathered her to him.

Blake sailed the next day, and he found, on reaching the timber belt, that there was much to be done. After some months of hard work, Harding left him in charge while he set off for the cities to arrange about pipes and plant and the raising of capital. It was early winter when he returned, satisfied with what he had accomplished and confident that the oil would pay handsomely, and Blake saw that he would be able to visit England in a few weeks.

He was sitting in their office shack one bitter day when a sled arrived with supplies, and the teamster brought him a cablegram. His face grew grave as he read it aloud to Harding:

"'Bertram killed in action. Challoner.'"

"That sets you free, doesn't it?" Harding asked after expressing his sympathy.

"I can't tell," Blake answered. "I haven't thought of it in that light. I was very fond of my cousin."

When Blake reached England, Millicent met him at the station. Mrs. Keith, she told him, had taken a house near Sandymere. She looked grave when he asked about his uncle.

"I'm afraid you will see a marked change in him, Dick. He has not been well since you left, and the news of Bertram's death was a shock."

She was with him when he met Challoner, who looked very frail and forlorn.

"It's a comfort to see you back, Dick; you are all I have now," he said, and went on with a break in his voice: "After all, it was a good end my boy made—a very daring thing! The place was supposed to be unassailable by such a force as he had, but he stormed it. In spite of his fondness for painting, he was true to the strain!"

When Blake was alone with Millicent in the dimly lighted drawing-room, he took her into his arms very gently.

"My secret must still be kept, dear," he said; "I can't speak."

"No," she agreed, "not while your uncle lives. It's hard, when I want everybody to know what you are!"

He kissed her.

"Perhaps it's natural for you to be prejudiced in my favor—but I like it."

"One reason for my loving you, Dick," she said softly, with her face close against his, "is that you are brave enough to take this generous part!"



THE END