Donald McKaye standing just outside.

"Well, bless my soul!" Daney declared. "So it's you Donald. Come in,
lad; come in."

Donald shook his head.

"No, I've only come to stay a minute, Mr. Daney. Thank you, sir. I--I
notice you're running a light track from the drying-yard down to the
Sawdust Pile. Stumbled over it in the dark a few minutes ago, and I--"
He essayed a ghastly smile, for he desired to remove the sting from
the gentle rebuke he purposed giving the general manger--"couldn't
seem to remember having ordered that track--or--suggesting that it be
laid."

"Quite so, Donald; quite so," Daney answered. "I did it on my own
initiative. Nan Brent has abandoned the Sawdust Pile--moved away from
Port Agnew, you know; so I decided to extend the drying-yard, and
squat on the Sawdust Pile before some undesirable took possession."

"Hm-m-m! I see. Well, suppose Nan takes a notion to return to Port
Agnew, Mr. Daney. She'll find our drying-yard something of a nuisance,
will she not?"

"Oh, but she's not coming back," Daney assured him, with all the
confidence of one free from the slightest doubt on the subject.

"She might. I could see rather dimly into the kitchen and it appears
Miss Brent left her little home furnished."

"Yes, she did, Donald. I believe she just turned the key in the lock
and went away."

"Know where she went, Mr. Daney?"

"No. She didn't even leave a forwarding address for her mail."

The young laird of Tyee lurched up to Mr. Daney and laid a heavy hand
on the older man's shoulder.

"How do you know that?" he demanded, and there was a growl in his
voice. "Has Mrs. Daney been asking the postmaster?"

Mr. Daney saw that, for some inexplicable reason, he was in for a bad
five minutes or more. His youthful superior's face was white and
beaded with perspiration. Daney had a suspicion that Donald had had a
drink or two.

"There has been no gossip, Donald," he answered crisply. "Get that
notion out of your head. I would protect you from gossip, for I think
I know my duty to the McKayes. I learned that lesson a long time ago,"
he added, with spirit.

"You haven't answered my question, Mr. Daney," Donald persisted.

"I shall. I know, because she told me herself." Mr. Daney had not
intended that Donald should ever discover that he had had an interview
with Nan Brent, but his veracity had, for the moment, appeared to him
to be questioned by his superior, and he was too truthful, too
thoroughl