tleman has my ticket, and doesn't know my address!"
protested the unfortunate passenger, and the purser answered:

"I really cannot help it, but I will telegraph to any of your friends
from the first way-port we call at, madam."

When the steamer had vanished behind the stately pines shrouding the
Narrows, English Jim sat down upon a timber-head and swore a little at
what he called his luck, before he uneasily recounted the folded papers
in his wallet.

"A pretty mess I've made of it all, and there'll be no end of trouble
if Thurston hears of this," he said aloud, so that a loafing porter
heard and grinned. "I'll write a humble letter--but, confound it, I
don't know where she's going to, and now here is one of those
distressful tracings missing. It must have been that old sketch of
Savine's, and Thurston will never want it, while nobody but a
draughtsman could make head or tail of the thing. Anyway, I'll get
some dinner before I decide what is best to be done."

While Gillow endeavored to enjoy his dinner, and, being an easy-going
man, partially succeeded, Millicent, who had picked up a folded paper,
leaned upon the steamer's rail with it open in her hand.

"This is Greek to me, but I suppose it is of value. I will keep it,
and perhaps give it back to Geoffrey," she ruminated. "The game was
amusing, but I feel horribly mean, and whether I shall tell Harry or
not depends very much upon his behavior."

CHAPTER XVIII

THE BURSTING OF THE SLUICE

One morning of early summer, Geoffrey Thurston lay neither asleep, nor
wholly awake, inside his double tent. The canvas was partly drawn
open, and from his camp-cot he could see a streak of golden sunlight
grow broader across the valley, while rising in fantastic columns the
night mists rolled away. The smell of dew-damped cedars mingled with
the faint aromatic odors of wood smoke. The clamor of frothing water
vibrated through the sweet cool air, for the river was swollen by
melted snow. Geoffrey lay still, breathing in the glorious freshness,
drowsily content. All had gone smoothly with the works, at least,
during the last month or two. Each time that she rode down to camp
with her father from the mountain ranch, Helen had spoken to him with
unusual kindness. Savine would, when well enough, spend an hour in
Geoffrey's tent. While some of the contractor's suggestions were
characterized by his former genius, most betrayed a serious weakening
of his menta