"Mr. Daney intimated that you were. He asked me how much I would take to abandon my squatter's right, but I declined to charge you a single cent." She smiled up at him a ghost of her sweet, old-time whimsical smile. "It was the first opportunity I had to be magnanimous to the McKaye family, and I hastened to take advantage of it. I merely turned the key in the lock and departed." "Daney has been a trifle too zealous for the Tyee interests, I fear," he replied gently. "And where do you plan to live?" "That," she retorted, still smilingly, "is a secret. It may interest you, Mr. McKaye, to know that I am not even leaving a forwarding address for my mail. You see, I never receive any letters of an important nature." He was silent a moment, digesting this. Then, "And does my son share a confidence which I am denied?" "He does not, Mr. McKaye. This is my second opportunity to do the decent thing toward the McKaye family--so I am doing it. I plan to make rather a thorough job of it, too. You--you'll be very kind and patient with him, will you not? He's going to feel rather badly, you know, but, then, I never encouraged him. It's all his fault, I think--I tried to play fair--and it was so hard." Her voice sunk to a mere whisper. "I've always loved Donald, Mr. McKaye. Most people do; so I have not regarded it as sinful on my part." "You are abandoning him of your own free will--" "Certainly. I have to. Surely you must realize that?" "Yes, I do. I have felt that he would never abandon you." He opened and closed his big hands nervously, and was plainly a trifle distrait. "So--so this is your idea of playing the game, is it?" he demanded presently. She nodded. "Well," he replied helplessly, "I would to God I dared be as good a sport as you are, Nan Brent! Hear me, now, lass. Think of the thing in life you want to do and the place where you want to do it--" She interrupted him. "No, no, Mr. McKaye; there can be no talk of money between us. I cannot and will not take your son--for his sake, and for my own sake I cannot and will not accept of your kindness. Somehow, some place, I'm going to paddle my own canoe." "Guid lass; guid lass," he whispered huskily. "Remember, then, if your canoe upsets and spills you, a wire to me will right you, and no questions asked. Good-by, my dear, and good luck to you!" He pressed her hand, lifted his hat, and walked briskly away in the direction of The Tyee Lumber Company's office, quite oblivious of the fact that his interview with Nan Brent had been observed by a person to whom the gods had given at birth a more than average propensity of intrigue, romance, and general cussedness--Mr. Daniel J. O'Leary, of whom more anon. From the station, Hector McKaye hurried over to the mill office and entered Andrew Daney's room. "Andrew," he began, "you've been doing things. What became of old Caleb Brent's motor-boat?"