eon here, I went down to visit the Brents at the Sawdust Pile.
Stayed for dinner. Old Caleb's in rather bad shape mentally and
physically, and I tried to cheer him up. Nan sang for me--quite like
old times."

"I saw Nan Brent on the beach the other day. Quite a remarkable young
woman. Attractive, I should say," the old man answered craftily.

"It's a pity, dad. She's every inch a woman. Hard on a girl with
brains and character to find herself in such a sorry tangle."

The Laird's heavy heart was somewhat lightened by the frankness and
lack of suspicion with which his son had met his blunt query as to
where he had been spending his time. For the space of a minute, he
appeared to be devoting his thoughts to a consideration of Donald's
last remark; presently he sighed, faced his son, and took the plunge.

"Have you heard anything about a fight down near the Sawdust Pile
last night, my son?" he demanded.

His son's eyes opened with interest and astonishment.

"No; I did not, dad. And I was there until nearly ten o'clock."

"Yes; I was aware of that, and of your visit there to-day and this
evening. Thank God, you're frank with me! That yellow scoundrel and
two Greeks followed you there to do for you. After you roughed the
Greek at the railroad station, it occurred to me that you had an enemy
and might hold him cheaply; so, just before I boarded the train, I
telephoned Daney to tell Dirty Dan to shadow you and guard you. So
well did he follow orders that he lies in the company hospital now at
the point of death. As near as I can make out the affair, Dirty Dan
inculcated in those bushwhackers the idea that he was the man they
were after; he went to meet them and took the fight off your hands."

"Good old Dirty Dan! I'll wager a stiff sum he did a thorough job."
The young laird of Tyee rose and ruffled his father's gray head
affectionately. "Thoughtful, canny old fox!" he continued. "I swear
I'm all puffed up with conceit when I consider the kind of father I
selected for myself."

"Those scoundrels would have killed you," old Hector reminded him,
with just a trace of emotion in his voice. "And if they'd done that,
sonny, your old father'd never held up his head again. There are two
things I could not stand up under--your death and"--he sighed, as if
what he was about to say hurt him cruelly--"the wrong kind of a
daughter-in-law."

"We will not fence with each other," his son answered soberly. "There
has never been a