his way. The room was in squalid
disorder, and its inmate had a flushed, exasperated look that did not
escape Anderson's notice. He thought it probable that his father was
already repenting his consent to go to Vancouver, and he avoided general
conversation as much as possible.

McEwen complained of having been left alone; abused Mrs. Ginnell; vowed
she had starved and ill-treated him; and then, to Anderson's surprise,
broke out against his son for having refused to provide him with the
money he wanted for the mine, and so ruined his last chance. Anderson
hardly replied; but what he did say was as soothing as possible; and at
last the old man flung himself on his bed, excitement dying away in a
sulky taciturnity.

Before Anderson left his room, Ginnell came in, bringing his accounts
for certain small expenses. Anderson, standing with his back to his
father, took out a pocketbook full of bills. At Calgary the day before a
friend had repaid him a loan of a thousand dollars. He gave Ginnell a
certain sum; talked to him in a low voice for a time, thinking his
father had dropped asleep; and then dismissed him, putting the money in
his pocket.

"Good night, father," he said, standing beside the bed.

McEwen opened his eyes.

"Eh?"

The eyes into which Anderson looked had no sleep in them. They were wild
and bloodshot, and again Anderson felt a pang of helpless pity for a
dishonoured and miserable old age.

"I'm sure you'll get on at Vancouver, father," he said gently. "And I
shall be there next week."

His father growled some unintelligible answer. As Anderson went to the
door he again called after him angrily: "You were a d---- fool, George,
not to find those dibs."

"What, for the mine?" Anderson laughed. "Oh, we'll go into that again at
Vancouver."

McEwen made no reply, and Anderson left him.

Anderson woke before seven. The long evening had passed into the dawn
with scarcely any darkness, and the sun was now high. He sprang up, and
dressed hastily. Going into the passage he saw to his astonishment that
while the door of the Ginnells' room was still closed, his father's was
wide open. He walked in. The room and the bed were empty. The contents
of a box carefully packed by Ginnell--mostly with new clothes--the night
before, were lying strewn about the room. But McEwen's old clothes were
gone, his gun and revolver, also his pipes and tobacco.

Anderson roused Ginnell, and they searched the house and its
nei