At this Maclin was obliged to do some original conjecturing. There must have been a scene--likely enough in that wood cabin. Northrup's woman had got the whip hand and Northrup had accepted terms--leaving Mary-Clare. That would account for the illness. So far, so good. But with both Larry and Northrup off the ground, the Heathcotes would have to take responsibility. This would be the psychological moment to buy the Point! So Maclin, keeping watch, followed Mary-Clare to chapel island. "Well, well!" he exclaimed as if surprised to see the girl in the angle of the old church. "Decided to get well, eh? Taking a sun bath?" Mary-Clare gathered her cloak closer, as if shrinking from the smiling, unwholesome-looking man. "Yes, I'm getting well fast," she said. "Hear anything from Larry?" It seemed best to hide his own feelings as to Larry. "No." "Some worried, I expect?" "No, I do not worry much, Mr. Maclin." Mary-Clare was thinking of her old doctor's philosophy. She wasn't going to die, so she must live at once! "It's a damned mean way to treat a little woman the way you've been treated." Maclin stepped nearer and his neck wrinkled. Mary-Clare made no reply to this. Maclin was conscious of the back of his neck--it irritated him. "Left you strapped?" he asked. "What is that?" Mary-Clare was interested. "Short of money." "Oh! no. My wishes are very simple--there's money enough for them." "See here, Mrs. Rivers, let's get down to business. Of course you know I want the Point. I'll tell you why. The mines are all right _as_ mines, but I have some inventions over there ripe for getting into final shape. Now, I haven't told a soul about this before--not even Larry--but I always hold that a woman _can_ keep her tongue still. I'm not one of the men who think different. I want to put up a factory on the Point; some model cottages and--and _make_ King's Forest. Now what would you take for the Point, and don't be too modest. I don't grind the faces of women." Maclin smiled. The fat on his face broke into lines--that was the best a smile could do for him. Mary-Clare looked at him, fascinated. "Speak up, Mrs. Rivers!" This came like a poke in the ribs--Mary-Clare recoiled as from a physical touch. "I do not own the Point any longer," she said. "What in thunder!" Maclin now recoiled. "Who then?" "I gave it to Larry." "How the devil could Larry pay you for it?" "Larry gave me no money." "Do you expect me to believe this, Mrs. Rivers?" The fat now resumed its flaccid lines. "It doesn't interest me in the least, Mr. Maclin, whether you do or not." Then Mary-Clare rose, rather weakly, and turned toward the bridge. And there stood Maclin alone! Like all people who have much that they fear to have known, Maclin considered now how much Larry really knew? Did he know what the Point meant? Had he ever opened letters? This brought the sweat out on Maclin. Had he copied letters with that devilish trick of his? Could he sell the Point to--to----?