he was employed at the mill, the director who held
Leslie's receipt sat in his handsome offices with the Englishman. A
newspaper lay open on the table before him, and the director smiled as
he read, "Ship, _Maria Carmony_, timber laden for China, meeting
continuous headwinds after sailing from this port, put into Cosechas,
Cal., for shelter, and her master reported the loss of a seaman when
making sail in the Straits of San Juan. The man's name was T. Slater,
and must have been a stranger, as nobody appears to have known him in
this city."

"Those fellows haven't managed it badly," he commented. "Anyway,
there's an end of him."

"They told me they had some trouble over it, and I gave them fifty
dollars extra," said Leslie. "They used the hint you mentioned--said
it worked well. But the two men are always likely to turn up,
unfortunately."

"It wouldn't count," the other answered confidently. "You will have to
bluff them off if they do. Deny the whole thing--nobody would believe
them--it's quite easy. It would have been different with that
confounded Black, for he would have had Thurston's testimony. The joke
of the whole thing is, that although he knew I held evidence which
would likely hang him with a jury of miners, it's tolerably certain
Black never did the thing he was wanted for."

Thus, the two parties interested remained contented, and only Thurston
was left bewildered and furious at the loss of a witness who might be
valuable to him. Moreover, the destruction of machinery which, having
been made specially for Thurston, in England, could not be replaced for
months. And not once did it ever occur to his subordinate, English
Jim, that he himself had furnished the clue which led to the abduction
of the missing man.

CHAPTER XX

UNDER THE STANLEY PINES

It was a pleasant afternoon when Millicent Leslie stood in the portico
of her villa, which looked upon the inlet from a sunny ridge just
outside Vancouver. Like the other residences scattered about, the
dwelling quaintly suggested a doll's house--it was so diminutively
pretty with its carved veranda, bright green lattices, and spotless
white paint picked out with shades of paler green and yellow. Flowers
filled tiny borders, and behind the house small firs, spared by the ax,
stood rigid and somber. With clear sunshine heating upon it and the
blue waters sparkling close below, the tiny villa was so daintily
attractive that one might almost