tability he
yearned to wallow in deviltry, to permit his soul, so long cramped in
virtue, to expand in wickedness.

On his way down-town he met young Bert Darrow, son of the man after
whom the adjacent lumber-town had been christened. Mr. Darrow had
recently been indicted under the Mann law for a jolly little
interstate romance. But yesterday, Mr. Daney had regarded Bert Darrow
as a wastrel and had gone a block out of his way to avoid the
scapegrace; to-night, however, Bert appealed to him as a man of
courage, a devil of a fellow with spirit, a lover of life in its
infinite moods and tenses, a lad with a fine contempt for public
opinion and established morals. Morals? Bah, what were they! In
France, Bert Darrow would have earned for himself a wink and a shrug,
as though to say: "Ah, these young fellows! One must watch out for the
rascals!" In the United States, he was a potential felon.

"Evening, Bert," Mr. Daney saluted him pleasantly, and paused long
enough to shake the latter's hand. "I saw your ad in the Seattle
_P.I._ this morning. You young dog! Hope you crawl out of that mess
all right."

"_C'est la guerre_," Bert murmured nonchalantly. "Thanks, awfully."

Mr. Daney felt better after that brief interview. He had clasped hands
with sin and felt now like a human being.

He went directly to the local telephone office and placed his New York
call with the chief operator, after which he sat in the manager's
office and smoked until ten o'clock, when New York reported "Ready!"

"You young ladies," said Mr. Daney, addressing the two young women on
duty, "may take a walk around the block. Port Agnew will not require
any service for the next twenty minutes."

They assimilated his hint, and when he was alone with the chief
operator Mr. Daney ordered her to switch the New York call on to Mrs.
McKaye at The Dreamerie. Followed ten minutes of "Ready, Chicago."
"All right, New York. Put your party on the line!"--a lot of
persistent buzzing and sudden silence. Then: "Hello, Port Agnew."

Mr. Daney, listening on the extension in the office of the manager,
recognized the voice instantly as Nan Brent's.

"Go on, Mrs. McKaye," he ordered. "That's the Brent girl calling Port
Agnew."

"Hello, Miss Brent. This is Donald McKaye's mother speaking. Can you
hear me distinctly?"

"Yes, Mrs. McKaye, quite distinctly."

"Donald is ill with typhoid fever. We are afraid he is not going to
get well, Miss Brent. The doctors say t