t though it entailed profit for its recipient it seemed to inspire no
satisfaction.

The big eyes were a shade wider than usual. Their glowing depths
burned more fiercely. He was stirred, and the secret of his feelings
lay in the signature at the end of the letter. It was a signature that
Murray McTavish disliked.

"John Kars," he muttered aloud.

There was no friendliness in his tone. There was no friendliness in
the eyes which were raised from the letter and turned on the deep-set
window overlooking the open gates beyond.

For some silent moments he sat there thinking deeply. He continued to
smoke, his gaze abstractedly fixed upon the blue film which floated
before it upon the still air. Gradually the dislike seemed to pass out
of his eyes. The fire in them to die down. Something almost like a
smile replaced it, a smile for which his face was so perfect a setting.
But his smile would have been difficult to describe. Perhaps it was
one of pleasure. Perhaps it was touched with irony. Perhaps, even, it
was the smile, the dangerous smile of a man who is fiercely resentful.
It was a curiosity in Murray that his smile could at any time be
interpreted into an expression of any one of the emotions.

But suddenly there came an interruption. In a moment his abstraction
was banished. He sprang alertly from his chair and moved to the door
which he held open. He had seen the handsome figure of Ailsa Mowbray
pass his window. Now she entered the office in response to his silent
invitation. She took the chair which always stood ready before a
second desk. It was the desk which had been Allan Mowbray's, and which
now was used by his son.

"I've come to talk about Alec," the mother said, turning her chair
about, and facing the man who was once more at his desk.

"Sure." The man nodded. His smile had vanished. His look was all
concern. He knew, none better than he, that Alec must be discussed
between them.

Ailsa Mowbray had aged in the seven months since her husband's death.
She had aged considerably. Her spirit, her courage, were undiminished,
but the years had at last levied the toll which a happy wifehood had
denied them. Nor was Murray unobservant of these things. His partner
in the fortunes of Fort Mowbray was an old woman.

"There's difficulty," the mother went on, her handsome eyes averting
their gaze towards the window. "Allan didn't reckon on the boy when he
said he should have a position ri