rt Agnew, which would be best for all
concerned."

"Why, Andrew Daney, you old hero! Cost you something to confess that,
didn't it? Well--I guessed you or my father had induced her to go, so
I concluded to start the investigation with you," He passed his hand
over his white dripping brow before resuming what he had to say. "The
Tyee Lumber Company isn't equipped to carry on its pay-roll Mr. Donald
McKaye and the man who interferes in his personal affair, even though
actuated by a kindly interest. You rip up that track you're laying and
leave Nan's home alone. Then you clean up your desk and hand me your
resignation. I'm sick--and your damned interference hurts. Sorry; but
you must go. Understand? Nan's coming back--understand? Coming
back--devilish hot night--for this time of year, isn't it? Man, I'm
burning up."

It came to Mr. Daney that the young laird was acting in a most
peculiar manner. Also, he was talking that way. Consequently, and what
with the distress of being dismissed from the McKaye service in such
cavalier fashion, the general manager decided to twist out from under
that terrible grasp on his shoulder.

Instantly, Donald released from this support, swayed and clutched
gropingly for Mr. Daney's person.

"Dizzy," he panted. "Head's on strike. Mr. Daney, where the devil are
you? Don't run away from me. You damned old muddler, if I get my hands
on you I'll pick you apart--yes, I will--to see--what makes you go.
You did it, Yes, you did--even if you're too stupidly honest--to lie
about it. Glad of that, though, Mr. Daney. Hate liars and interfering
duffers. Ah--the cold-blooded calculation of it--took advantage of her
poverty. She's gone--nobody knows--May God damn your soul to the
deepest hell--Where are you? I'll kill you--no, no; forgive me,
sir--Yes, you've been faithful, and you're an old employe--I wish you
a very pleasant good-evening, sir."

He stepped gingerly down the three wide stairs, pitched forward, and
measured his length in a bed of pansies. Mr. Daney came down, struck a
match, and looked at his white face. Donald was apparently
unconscious; so Mr. Daney knelt, placed his inquisitive nose close to
the partly open lips, and sniffed. Then he swore his chiefest oath.

"Hell's hells and panther-tracks! He isn't drunk. He's sick."

Fifteen minutes later, the young Laird of Port Agnew reposed in the
best room of his own hospital, and Andrew Daney was risking his life
motoring at top speed u