By degrees the light got clearer, the scattered black cedars grew into definite form, and a strip of foaming water showed in the depths of the chasm. Lisle walked some distance along the edge, searching for an easier place to cross, but the rocks were smooth and almost perpendicular except where they overhung the torrent. He went back to where the others were sitting and found that they had been joined by Crestwick, who briefly explained that having set out on their trail he had been stopped by the cañon and had followed it up until it led him to them.
“It looks worse farther along; we’ll have to try it here,” Lisle announced. “Can you get down, Nasmyth?”
Nasmyth glanced into the rift. It was, he judged, nearly sixty feet in depth, but part of the bank on which he stood had slipped down into the stream, leaving an uneven surface by means of which an agile man might descend. A tall slab of rock, evidently part of the fallen mass, rose in a pinnacle from the water, and on top of it rested the branches of the tree that Gladwyne had used as a bridge and had afterward dislodged. The rock behind it on the opposite bank was absolutely smooth, but the thicker end of the log, which had fallen against the face, reached to within about nine feet of the summit.
“Yes,” he said, answering Lisle’s question; “but I’m very doubtful whether I can get up the other side. The last bit looks particularly awkward; there’s an outward bulge just beneath the top.”
“We might manage it by giving the leader a lift, if we got so far,” Batley suggested, pointing to the sharp slab. “That pike should help us; I think it would go.”
“You think it would go?” queried Nasmyth meaningly. “Aren’t you mixing idioms? Pike’s what we’d say round Wasdale, and your other expression’s not uncommon in Switzerland.”
Batley laughed.
“I’ll own that I’ve done some rock work in both districts, though I was thinner then. But I’ve an idea that time’s precious to our leader.”
He lowered himself over the edge and finding foothold, went down cautiously by crack and fissure, while the others followed with some trouble. Alighting waist-deep in a frothing rush of water, he was driven for a few yards down-stream, and it was only by seeking the support of the rock that he slowly made head against the torrent. Lisle joined him when he reached the foot of the pinnacle, where they stopped to gather breath with a thin shower of spray whirling about them. The light was still dim down in the bottom of the chasm, and the mass of rock ran up above them, shadowy, black and almost smooth.
Wasting no time in examination, Lisle flung himself upon it, seeking for a grip with elbows and knees. He had ascended a yard or two when he lost hold and coming down with a run fell with a splash into the stream.
“I didn’t think you’d manage it that way,” Batley remarked. “The edge appears a little more promising.”
He went up, with Lisle following, finding hold for knees and fingers, while Nasmyth and Crestwick, panting heavily, encouraged each other below. On reaching the top of the pinnacle, Batley lay upon it and gave Lisle his hand; and when he had drawn him up he pointed to the tree.
“I’ll go first, for reasons that will become apparent later,” he explained. “Hold on to the log; it doesn’t seem firmly fixed.”
The tree was small and when Lisle shook it the butt moved against the face of the rock, which was separated by a broad gap from the top of the fallen mass. Batley was heavy, but he ascended cautiously, while Lisle leaned upon the log to steady it. Then, calling Nasmyth to take his place, Lisle went up. When he was near the top, it looked as if their progress must abruptly cease. The butt was narrow and the summit of the rock above it projected somewhat. There was not the smallest knob or crevice one could grasp, and below them in the shadowy rift the torrent boiled furiously among massy stones. It was not a place to slip in.
Batley, however, rose very carefully, with his feet upon the shattered butt and his hands pressed against the rock, until he stood almost upright.
“You’ll have to climb up over me until you can get your fingers on the top,” he said. “Take time when you get up and feel for a good hold.”
Reaching his shoulders, Lisle stood on them while Nasmyth and Crestwick on the pinnacle beneath looked up at a somewhat impressive spectacle. Lisle’s head and shoulders were now above the edge, but he was forced to bend backward and outward by the projecting bulge which pressed against his breast, and his cautious movements suggested that he could find no hold. It appeared impossible for him to descend, unless he did so accidentally, and in that event nothing could save him from a fall to the bottom of the ravine. For a while, they watched his tense figure moving futilely; and then Batley, standing most precariously poised, bent his arm and seized one of Lisle’s feet. He spoke in a breathless gasp as he thrust it upward; Lisle’s legs swung free and he disappeared beyond the edge. The two below were conscious of a vast relief. It was tempered, however, by the knowledge that they must shortly emulate their companion’s exploit.
“Take off your pack!” Batley called to Lisle. “Split the bag, if it’s necessary, and lower the end! But be quick! This isn’t a comfortable position.”
The pack in which the small bush rancher conveys his provisions from the nearest store as a rule consists of a cotton flour bag with a pair of suspenders fastened to its corners, and Nasmyth had provided the party with a few receptacles of similar pattern but more strongly made before entering the wilds. The straps, when Lisle let them down, reached several feet from the top, and Batley bade Nasmyth and Crestwick ascend. They managed it with assistance from Lisle, who seized them from above. Then Batley called up to them.
“I’m going to test the tackle. Give me a hand up as soon as I’m over the bulge!”
It was difficult to hear him, as he was still beneath the projecting edge, and they watched the straining straps with keen anxiety until a hand that felt for a hold upon the rock appeared. Lisle seized it, with Nasmyth ready to assist, and Batley came up, gasping, with the perspiration streaming from his face.
“I’d have managed it easily at one time,” he said. “This is what comes of civilization and soft living.”
“You brought us across; we owe you a good deal for it,” declared Lisle.
Batley smiled at him as they set off again.
“In this case, I won’t be an exacting creditor. In fact, it’s rather curious how we’ve hit it off, considering that you wouldn’t hear of a compromise and our interests are opposed.”
“I don’t know what your interests are,” Lisle returned dryly.
“Then, in one way, I’m ahead of you. I know your wishes, and Nasmyth’s—you don’t want Clarence to marry Miss Gladwyne. It’s your motive I’m not sure about. Do you want the girl yourself?”
They were some distance in front of the others, who were too far behind to hear them. Lisle looked at his companion steadily. The man was engaged in a business that was regarded with general disfavor, but there was something he liked about him and he did not resent his bluntness.
“Well,” he answered, “it isn’t for the reason you’ve given that I mean to stop the match.”
“Can you do so?”
Batley smiled reflectively.
“And the present journey is somehow connected with the attempt? Now I believe I might have left you held up on the wrong side of the cañon; the idea was in my mind and you can give me credit for not yielding to it. I suppose there would be no use in my asking you for a hint as to the relation between my rather tricky companion’s expedition and his cousin’s death?”
“None in the least,” said Lisle decidedly.
Batley made a gesture of acquiescence.
“Oh, well! We must try to be friends as long as possible.”
Nothing more was said about the matter, and they spent the day forcing a passage through scrub timber, up precipitous hillsides, and across long stony ridges.
There was no sign of Gladwyne’s trail, but that did not trouble Lisle, for he knew where the man was heading for. On the second day Batley showed signs of distress, and Nasmyth and Crestwick were walking very wearily, but Lisle held on at a merciless pace. It was essential that he should reach the cache before Gladwyne could interfere with it. Toward evening, Nasmyth made an effort and caught up with Lisle.
“How would Clarence get across to the second cache on the other side of the water?” he asked. “It’s a point I’ve been considering; I suppose it’s occurred to you.”
“I don’t know,” Lisle confessed. “The Indians near the divide said there was another party with canoes somewhere lower down; but, as the packer who was with me didn’t talk to them, so far as I noticed, I don’t see how Gladwyne could have heard of it; but that’s as far as I can go. If he destroyed the first cache, it would help to clear him, unless you can vouch for the correctness of the list I made; but he may have some further plan in his mind.” He paused and raised his hand. “Listen! Isn’t that the river? We can’t be far from the cache.”
The day, like the two or three preceding it, had been hot and bright, and now that evening was drawing on, the still air was heavy with the smell of the cedars in a neighboring hollow. A high ridge stood out black against a vivid green glow, and from beyond it there rose a faint, hoarse murmur. Nasmyth welcomed it gladly as announcing the end of the march.
“The rest of the party can hardly be down until to-morrow; there’s a couple of portages,” he said. “It looks as if we’ll have to go without our supper.”
“I don’t want to see them before morning,” Lisle returned grimly.
They pushed on, the light growing dimmer as they went, until at length the moon rose from behind the ridge; and when they had skirted the ridge they saw the river glimmer beneath them in a flood of silvery radiance. It filled the gorge with its deep murmur, for the hot sunshine for three days had melted the snow, which had poured down to swell the flood by every gully. Not far below the neck the broken surface was flecked with white where the river swept angrily over a sharper slope of its bed, and a black boulder or two stood out in the midst of the rushing foam. Up-stream of this there was a strip of shingle which Nasmyth recognized as the one where the cache had been made; he supposed that Lisle had struck the spot by heading for the narrow rift of the neck, which was conspicuous for some distance from both sides.
From end to end the sweep of pebbles was clearly distinct; but there was no dark figure moving about it, and Nasmyth wondered if they had come too late. They had marched fast, as his aching muscles testified, but they had been delayed at the cañon and Gladwyne had had a long start. If he had arrived and had visited the cache, their efforts might prove to have been thrown away. There must be no shadow of doubt when Lisle told his startling story.
They descended with caution, moving through shadow, for the ridge above them cut off the moonlight, though it was far from dark, and they were near the bottom when Crestwick dislodged a bank of stones which went rattling and crashing down to the beach. A moment later a black form sprang out from among the rocks below and ran hurriedly along the shingle. This surprised Nasmyth because he could not doubt that the man was Gladwyne and he failed to understand his object in making what would probably be a futile attempt to avoid them. Lisle was some distance in front, and his voice rang out sharply:
“Head him off from the canoe!”
Nasmyth broke into a stumbling run—it was now obvious that Gladwyne meant to cross the river, and perhaps destroy the second cache.
Gladwyne had reached the canoe when Lisle gained the beach, and Nasmyth, descending in reckless haste, saw him hurriedly turn it over and raise the forward end of it. Lisle was running his hardest, almost as if he were fresh, up the long strip of shingle; but it was evident that he would be too late, and they would have no means of following Gladwyne after the canoe was launched. There was a sharp rattle of stones as he hauled it down; Lisle was still some way behind; Gladwyne sprang on board and thrust the light craft off, and a few strokes of the paddle drove her well out into the stream.
Lisle stopped, standing in the moonlight, and his comrade could see his hands tightly clenched at his side; then he suddenly tore off his jacket and flung it behind him. Noticing this, Nasmyth attempted to increase his pace. The river was running fast, swollen with melted snow, and Lisle must be badly worn out. If he had to be restrained by force, he should not attempt to swim across.
Then, to Nasmyth’s astonishment, Gladwyne leaned over the stern of the craft and began to paddle desperately with one hand. This proceeding caused Lisle to stop again, close at the water’s edge.
“Come back!” he shouted.
Nasmyth ran up and Lisle turned.
“He’s dropped or broken his paddle—cracked it when he shoved her out. There are two or three ugly rocks in the rapid.”
They ran along the bank together, keeping pace with the craft which was sliding away fast with the stream. Nasmyth could feel his heart thumping as he wondered what Clarence would do. Though he could not cross the river, it was possible that he might propel the light canoe back to the shingle with his hand before he reached the rapid. As he could not guide her in the strong rush of water, there would be danger in attempting to descend it. He made no response, however, to their warning shouts.
Batley and Crestwick overtook the others shortly before the canoe swept into the faster stream at the head of the rapid and they watched her eagerly. There was a narrow pass between several boulders close ahead, which was the chief danger, and the current seemed to be carrying the craft down on one of them. In a few moments she struck and jambed, broadside on, across the mass of stone. White foam boiled about her; they saw Gladwyne rise and clutch the rock, but whether to thrust her off or to climb out did not appear. He suddenly sank down and, so far as they could make out, the canoe rolled over.
The next moment Lisle plunged into the river. Nasmyth ran to the water’s edge, but seeing that he was too late, he sat down limply. Lisle was a good swimmer, but it did not seem possible that any man could reach Clarence before he was washed out at the tail of the rapid. It became evident, however, that somebody else meant to try, for Batley, running hard down the beach, plunged in.
“It’s awful!” gasped Jim Crestwick behind Nasmyth. “It’s not the risk of drowning; they’ll be smashed to bits! Anyway, we’d better make for the slack at the tail.”
Nasmyth got up. He could see nothing of Gladwyne or either of the others; there were only black rocks, rushing water and outbreaks of foam, and he had a sickening idea that long before they reached the quieter pool the need for any services he could render would be past. Fortunately, the beach was fairly smooth, and after a desperate run they reached a tongue of rock beneath which the eddy swung. Farther on, in the shadow, Batley stood in the water, calling to them and apparently clinging hard to a half-seen object in the stream.
Nasmyth leaped in knee-deep, with Crestwick behind him, and gripping the loosely-hanging arm of the body Batley was supporting, he asked hoarsely:
“Who is it?”
“Lisle!” was the breathless answer. “Help me to get him out!”
They dragged him up the beach and let him sink down. He lay upon the shingle, silent and inert.
“Make a fire, Jim!” commanded Batley. “Lift his shoulder a bit, Nasmyth! Turn him partly over!”
He hurriedly examined Lisle and then looked up.
“It’s not a case of drowning; and his limbs look sound. Must have got the breath knocked out of him against a boulder.” He pointed to a broad red gash on Lisle’s forehead as Nasmyth eased him down again. “That explains his unconsciousness.”
“Where’s Gladwyne?” Nasmyth asked.
Batley made an expressive gesture.
“Beyond our help, anyway; somewhere down-river.” He appeared to brace himself with an effort. “I’m pretty nearly finished, but there’s a good deal to be done. We’ll strip Lisle, and you and Crestwick can share your dry things with him. Then one of you had better gather cedar twigs for him to lie on.”
Lisle had with some difficulty been dressed in dry clothes, and he lay with his eyes shut on a couch of cedar sprays beside a fire, when Batley rose and turned to Nasmyth.
“I don’t think we need be anxious,” he said. “The warmth is coming back to him and he’s breathing regularly. The knock on the head must have been a bad one, and it’s very likely that he got another thump or two washing down the rapid, and the water was icy cold; but he’ll feel better after a few hours’ sleep.”
Nasmyth was inclined to agree with this prediction and he stood up wearily.
“Then you won’t want me for a little while,” he replied, walking away from the fire.
Having given most of his clothes to Lisle, he was very lightly clad and the night was cold. He shivered as he plodded over the shingle, aching in every limb, but he looked about eagerly and after a while he found the cache. It was uncovered, but there were signs that Gladwyne had only begun his task when he had been surprised by the arrival of the party which had followed him.
Nasmyth did not pause to think what Lisle’s wishes might be, or whether he would resent his action. So far, he had kept his promise; but, with physical weariness reacting on his mental faculties, he was only conscious of a hazy idea that Gladwyne’s death had released him from his pledge. The traitor had expiated his offense; the tragic story must never be raked up again.
Stooping over the receptacle, he dragged out the different articles in it, and avoiding a direct glance at them or any attempt to enumerate them, he gathered them up and striding over the shingle hurled them as far as possible into the river. It cost him several journeys, but his heart grew lighter with every splash. When at last the work was finished and he had refilled the hole and scattered the stones that had covered it, he sat down with a great sense of relief. A burden which had long weighed upon his mind was gone; Mrs. Gladwyne and Millicent were safe at last from the grief and shame that a revelation would have brought them. Exhausted and confused as he was, he could not tell whether he felt any sorrow for Gladwyne’s tragic end; the man had passed beyond the reach of human censure, one could only let his memory sink into oblivion.
Growing very cold, he went back to the fire, but he offered no explanation of his absence. Lisle was still asleep or unconscious, but the natural color in his face was reassuring.
“I’ve heard nothing about your part in the water,” Nasmyth said to Batley.
“There’s not much to tell. It isn’t astonishing that my memory’s by no means clear. Anyhow, I wasn’t far from Gladwyne, who was swimming well, when he was swept away from me and in among the lower boulders by the swirl of an eddy. I suppose it didn’t quite reach me, but the next moment I was sucked into a rush of broken water and went down-stream, below the surface part of the time, because I was surprised when I found I could breathe and look about again. By good luck, I’d got into the smoothest, deepest flow, which swept me straight through. After a little, I saw somebody washing down in a slack and got hold of him. I didn’t know whether it was Gladwyne or Lisle; but I held on and a side-swing of the current brought us both ashore. Gladwyne, of course, must have gone under after being badly damaged among the rocks.”
“There’s only one place where he could have landed and I searched it while you were away,” Crestwick said gravely.
“Why did you go in after him?” Nasmyth asked Batley. “You must have seen that you couldn’t save him.”
“That,” Batley answered with a curious smile, “is more than I can clearly tell you; and I might suggest that Lisle’s venture is even harder to understand. I don’t honestly think I owe Gladwyne anything; but, after all, we passed for friends, and I used to be fond of swimming. Of course, there’s a more obvious explanation—I’d lent him a good deal of money and from what I’ve learned since, I may have some difficulty in enforcing my claim on the estate. It was natural that I should make an effort to recover the debt.”
Nasmyth did not think that the man had been most strongly influenced by that desire, but he addressed Crestwick:
“Hadn’t you better gather some more branches or driftwood for the fire, Jim?”
Crestwick disappeared, and Nasmyth filled his pipe before he turned to Batley.
“Now,” he said, “I don’t want to be offensive; but there are two people connected with this affair who must be spared any unnecessary suffering. That’s a fact you had better recognize.”
“I hardly think you do me justice,” returned Batley, looking amused. “It’s perfectly plain that there’s a mystery behind these recent events; one that has some relation to George Gladwyne’s death. Your idea is that an unscrupulous person of my description might find some profit in probing it?”
“You’ll never learn the truth. I’ve seen to that.”
“The fact is, I don’t mean to try.”
Nasmyth was a little astonished at finding himself ready to believe this.
“Then,” he asked, “what do you mean to do about your claim on Gladwyne?”
“In the first place, there’s the insurance; but I discovered by accident that the company Gladwyne had his policy on was the one that had insured his cousin. Whether they’ll be struck by the coincidence and the unusual nature of both accidents and make trouble or not, I can’t tell; but if they pay up there’ll be an end of the thing. Failing that, I’ll have to consider. My demands might be contested by the Gladwyne trustees—the deal was a little irregular in some respects—but I parted with the money and I’m going to make an effort to get it back.”
“How much did Clarence owe you?”
Batley told him and Nasmyth looked thoughtful.
“Well,” he requested, “if you meet with strong opposition, come to me before you decide on any course, and I’ll see what can be arranged. I dare say there’ll be some trouble, but I know the trustees—and, as I said, there are people who must be saved all needless pain, at any cost.”
“It’s promised,” agreed Batley. “I’ll make things as easy as possible, but that’s as far as I can go. I’m not rich enough to be recklessly generous.”
Lisle woke soon after this and asked one or two half-intelligible questions, but they gave him no information and he went to sleep again; then Crestwick arrived with more fuel and Nasmyth took the first watch while his companions rested. He was very cold, and now and then he saw Batley, who had discarded most of his wet clothes, wake up for a few moments and shiver. Once or twice he glanced longingly at the garments spread out round the fire, but when he felt them they were still too wet to put on. After a while Crestwick relieved him, and when he awakened dawn was breaking across the black ridges and the rushing river. Batley had left his place, and Crestwick began to stride up and down the beach, presumably to warm himself. To Nasmyth’s satisfaction and surprise, Lisle spoke to him.
“You slept pretty sound,” he said. “Didn’t hear me getting some information about what happened out of Batley.”
“Then you know?”
“Yes,” was the grim answer. “The thing’s finished; there’s nothing to be done.”
Nasmyth made a sign of agreement.
“Horribly sore all over, left side particularly. Struck a big boulder, and then drove in among a nest of stones before my senses left me. Tried to get up a while ago, but couldn’t manage it. What’s as much to the purpose, I’m feeling hungry.”
“Unfortunately, there’s nothing left for breakfast. One of us had better go up-stream and look out for the canoes.”
Lisle nodded.
“That’s your duty—I don’t envy you. Make them camp a little higher up. It would be better, in several ways, and I’d rather be on my feet again before they come here.”
Nasmyth set off, jaded and hungry, and he was feeling very limp when, as he plodded along a high ridge, he saw the canoes sliding down the river. He had hard work to reach the bank and he shrank from the task before him when the first canoe grounded upon the stones. Millicent and Bella were in it, and Millicent gazed at the lonely man with fixed, anxious eyes. He was ragged and looked very weary; his face was worn and haggard.
“Where are the rest?” she asked in a strained voice. “Something has happened—what is it?”
“Three of them are some miles down the river.”
“Three!” cried Millicent, in dismay. “Haven’t you found Clarence yet?”
Nasmyth hesitated, regarding her compassionately, but she made a sign of protest.
“Go on! Don’t keep me in suspense!”
“Clarence,” said Nasmyth quietly, “is dead. Lisle is rather badly damaged.”
Millicent left the canoe and sat down, very white in face, upon a neighboring stone. In the meanwhile the other canoes had grounded and her companions gathered about her. She did not speak to them and some time passed before she turned to Nasmyth.
“Tell me all,” she begged.
He briefly related what had happened, and there was an impressive silence when he finished. Then Millicent slowly rose.
“And Lisle’s badly hurt,” she said. “We must go on!”
They relaunched the canoes and Nasmyth had no further speech with her, for as they floated down-river she sat, still and silent, in another canoe. She was conscious chiefly of an unnerving horror and a sense of contrition. Clarence was dead, and she had been coldly hypercritical; hardly treating him as a lover, thinking of his failings. She blamed herself bitterly in a half-dazed fashion, but it was only afterward she realized that she had not been troubled by any very poignant sense of loss.
After a while Nasmyth said they would land, but Millicent roused herself to countermand his instructions and eventually they reached Batley’s camp. Lisle had got up during the day and he now walked painfully down to the water’s edge to meet her. When she landed he gravely pressed her hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said simply. “We did what we could to save him.”
“Oh, I know,” she responded. “Nobody could doubt that.”
Then Nasmyth landed with provisions and while the men ate two Indians strode into the camp and addressed Lisle angrily. They were curing salmon, they said, and had left a canoe on the shingle, in order to avoid a portage when returning, and they had gone in another craft to set some fish-traps in a lower rapid. To their surprise they had afterward seen their canoe drifting down-stream full of water and badly damaged, and they had set off at once to discover who was responsible.
Lisle offered them some silver currency, and after a little chaffering they departed satisfied.
“Now we know how the canoe came to be lying where Gladwyne found her,” he said to Nasmyth.
Then he sought Millicent.
“I think,” he told her gently, “we had better go on—to stay here would be painful.” He hesitated. “I’ll leave Crestwick and an experienced river-Jack packer to investigate. If you would rather, I’ll stay with them, though I’m afraid I can’t get about much.”
“Thank you,” she replied in a voice which had a break in it. “You must come with us; you don’t look fit to stand.”
Running the rapid, they slid away down-river, and once more Millicent sat very still, thinking confused thoughts, until at last they made camp for the night and she crept away to the shelter of her tent. A day or two later Crestwick and the packer overtook them, having discovered nothing; and then the party was animated by a strong desire to escape from the river and reach the trail to the settlements as soon as possible. Further search for Gladwyne was useless; the flood had swept him away and no one would ever know where his bones lay. He had set out on his longest and most mysterious journey, leaving only two women to mourn him, and of these one, who had tried to love him out of duty, would by and by forget.
On the evening before they left the river, Lisle stood with Millicent looking back up the long reach they had descended. They had reached the taller timber, and on one bank black firs, climbing the hillside, stood out against the fading light with a gauzy mist-curtain drawn across their higher ranks. The flood slid by, glimmering dimly, smooth and green, and from out of the distance came the throbbing clamor of a rapid.
“It’s your last look,” said Lisle. “We’ll be in the bush to-morrow and I expect to hire a wagon, or at least a horse or two, in a few days. Now I’m sorry I ever brought you here. You’ll be glad to get away.”
“You mustn’t blame yourself,” she told him. “We have only gratitude for you. You have no part in the painful memories.”
She glanced once more up the valley; and then moved back into the shadow of the firs.
“It’s all wildly beautiful, but it’s so pitiless—I shall never think of it without a shiver.”
“You have made plenty of notes and sketches for the book,” suggested Lisle, seeing her distress.
“The book? I don’t know that I shall ever finish it. I feel cut adrift, as if there were no use in working and I hadn’t a purpose left. First George went, and then Clarence—so far, there was always some one to think of—and now I’m all alone.”
She broke out into open sobbing and Lisle, feeling very sympathetic and half dismayed, awkwardly tried to soothe her.
“I’m better,” she said at last. “It was very foolish, but I couldn’t help it. I think we’ll go back to the others.”
He gave her his arm, for the way was rough, but as they approached the camp she stopped a moment amid the shadow and stillness of the great fir trunks.
“I have done with the river—I think I am afraid of it,” she confessed. “Can’t we get away early to-morrow?”
Lisle said it should be arranged and she turned to him gratefully.
“One can always rely on you! You’re just like George was in many ways. It’s curious that whenever I’m in trouble I think of him—”
She seemed on the verge of another breakdown, and she laid her hand in his for a moment before she went from him hurriedly with a low, “Good night!”
Lisle strolled back to the river and lighted his pipe. He had noticed and thought it significant that she spoke more of the brother whom she had lost several years ago than of the lover who had perished recently; but, from whatever cause it sprung, her distress troubled him.
His thoughts were presently interrupted by Nasmyth.
“There’s a thing I’d better tell you, Vernon,” he said, sitting down near by. “The night you were half drowned I emptied the cache and, without making any note of what was in it, pitched everything into the river.”
“So I discovered. At least, when I managed with some trouble to reach the place, I knew it was either you or Gladwyne, and I blamed you.”
“I’ve decided,” Lisle said gravely, “that you did quite right. It’s the end of that story.”
“Then you have abandoned the purpose you had in view?”
“I’ve been thinking hard, and it seems to me that if Vernon were with me now, the last thing that would please him would be to see the two women suffer; he was a big man in every way. There’s another thing—he left no relations to consider.”
Nasmyth laid a hand on his shoulder in a very expressive way.
“I felt all along that you’d come to look at it like that!”
“But there’s Batley; he has some suspicions.”
“I can silence him,” promised Nasmyth. “The man has his good points, after all.”
“That’s so,” Lisle agreed. “Still, I’ll come straight across to England and tackle him if you fail. If it’s a question of money, you can count me in—I’ve been prospering lately.” He rose and knocked out his pipe. “That’s the last word on the matter.”
They went back to camp, and starting soon after sunrise the next morning they reached a settlement on the railroad after a comparatively easy journey; and that evening Lisle stood with a heavy heart beside the track while the big cars moved away, his eyes fixed on a woman’s figure that leaned out from a vestibule platform, waving a hand to him.
After that he went back to his work, with Crestwick; and nearly twelve months had passed when he sent a cable to England and started for that country a day after receiving the answer. Crestwick insisted on going with him.
“You’ll no doubt want my support again,” he grinned. “There’s an office I mean to rob Nasmyth of, if I can.”
It was evening when they drove into sight of Millicent’s house. Lisle’s heart throbbed painfully fast as he got down, but he was not kept waiting. Millicent was standing in her drawing-room, and as he came in she held out her hand to him.
“You answered my message,” he said, seizing it. “You must have guessed what I meant when I asked if I might come across.”
“Yes,” she confessed softly; “I knew and I told you to come.”
He still held her a little away from him as he gave a quick glance at the refined and artistic appointments of the room.
“There’s a good deal you will have to give up,” he told her. “You’re not afraid of our new and rugged country? But it has something to offer—and we need such people as you.”
“It’s going to be a great country before very long,” she answered gravely; “and I have no dread of it now. But—I gave my dearest—I think it owes me something in return.”
He drew her masterfully into his arms.
“It discharges all its debts. You must teach me how to pay you back in full measure; that’s my one big task. You’re giving so much freely; but, of course, I’m glad—I don’t want duty.”
“This isn’t duty,” she smiled; “it’s love!”
THE END