"Well, I hadn't spent much time at his desk before I discovered why King had written me those directions. Henry can do what he pleases about Harriet, but I know Linda's a good sport. I know she wants the truth." "I do," returned Linda, with cold promptness. "What had Bertram against Henry?" "Nothing, bless your heart. The telltale package of papers concerned the Antlers Irrigation proposition. Your father was out in the West on the spot and King was in Chicago and these letters and telegrams were their correspondence at the time. It seems that Mr. Barry was completely fascinated by the proposition, but King knew the people connected with it better than Mr. Barry did; and though it appeared entirely legitimate, King begged your father to have nothing to do with it. He admitted that if it succeeded it would be a fortune, but the whole thing was on such a big scale and would involve Barry & Co. so deeply that King advised strongly and even urged that they let it alone; but after an argument of days Mr. Barry decided against him." Fred met Linda's frowning gaze. He waited while her face flushed, then watched while the red tide sank. In her concentrated look she appeared to be angry; and Fred hurried on defensively. "I tell you, Linda, I thought you ought to know this. You've always stood for fair play, and there the whole business world has been knocking Bertram King for months. He was a good fighter--but they knocked him down at last. If you'd seen him as I did, lying there, burning up with fever, and babbling scraps of talk that showed how he has worried--" Linda leaned forward and took Fred Whitcomb's surprised hand in one as cold as ice. Her brow still frowned, but the relaxed lips parted. "Thank you for telling me; thank you," she said. Mrs. Porter hurriedly gathered together her sewing materials, stuffed them into her silk workbag, and rose. Whitcomb, much relieved by Linda's words, also stood up. "Don't disturb yourselves," said Mrs. Porter; "I am going home to pack. I shall go at once to Chicago." "Do you mean to King?" asked Whitcomb. "Of course." Mrs. Porter also seized the young man's hand, and her moist eyes poured out their gratitude. "I can't tell you, Mr. Whitcomb, how I thank you, for befriending him: it's impossible." Fred smiled broadly. "Oh, say," he returned, "you don't need to pack. King is here." "What!" "Sure thing. I wouldn't have come without him. Not on your life. He didn't care much about it, but then he didn't care much about anything, and Mrs. Lindsay had said it was doing Madge a world of good--and Linda was here,"--the speaker turned and looked down at Linda, leaning back against the rock with a face as stony as its gray wall,--"so I bundled the poor chap on the train, and here we are." "At that awful Benslow place?" gasped Mrs. Porter.