behaviour of the boys in the boat on the day of the accident had at
last reached her ears, for, with such excitement prevailing and Jerry-Jo
reduced to periods of nervous babbling as he repeated again and again the
story, Mary was certain of overhearing the details. As far as possible
she verified every word. That her sons had disobeyed her about the sail
there could be no doubt, and when she went to the shelf of the bar and
discovered the half-filled bottles which Sandy had put in the places of
the brandy and whisky, her heart gave up doubt. She relinquished all that
she had prided herself upon in the past. They had defied and deceived
her! They had permitted her to be mocked while she prated of her
superiority! It was bitter hard, but Mary McAdam made no feeble cry--she
prepared for the final act in the little drama. Beyond that she could
not, would not look.

"Dig me two graves," she commanded Big Hornby; "dig them one on either
side of my husband's."

"You'll be thinking the bodies will yet be found, poor soul?" Hornby had
a tender nature kept human by his hunger for his absent boys.

"I'm not thinking. I'm doing my part; let others do the same."

And then Mary went to Anton Farwell. Farwell, since the night of the
tragedy, was waiting, always waiting for the inevitable. Every knock at
his door brought him panting to his feet. He knew Doctor Ledyard would
come; he fervently hoped he would, and soon, but the days dragged on.
There were moments when the man had a wild desire to shoulder his bag and
set forth under shadow of the night and the excitement, for one of his
long absences, this one, however, to terminate as far from Kenmore as
possible. Once he had even started, but at the edge of the water where
his boat lay he halted, deterred by the knowledge that his safer course
lay in facing what he must face sooner or later. Now that he was known to
be alive it were easier to deal with one man than with the pack of
bloodhounds which that one man might set upon him. Always the personal
element entered in--it was weak hope, but the only one. He might win
Ledyard; he could not win the pack!

When Mary McAdam knocked on Farwell's door he thought the time had come,
but the sight of the distracted mother steadied him. Here was something
for him to do, something to carry him away from his lonely forebodings.

"Come in, Mrs. McAdam. Rest yourself. You look sorely in need of rest."

It was the early evening of a hot day