The young laird of Tyee wondered what sort of man could have done this thing--this monumental wickedness. His great fists were clenched as there welled within him a black rage at the scoundrel who had so wantonly wrecked that little home on the Sawdust Pile. He wondered, with the arrogance of his years, assuming unconsciously the right of special privilege, if Nan would ever reveal to him the identity of the villain. Perhaps, some day, in a burst of confidence, she might. Even if she did tell him, what could he do? To induce the recreant lover to marry her openly and legally would, he knew, be the world's way of "righting the wrong" and giving the baby a name, but the mischief had been done too long, and could never be undone unless, indeed, a marriage certificate, with proper dating, could be flaunted in the face of an iconoclastic and brutal world. Even then, there would remain that astute and highly virtuous few who would never cease to impart in whispers the information that, no matter what others might think, _they_ had their doubts. He was roused from his bitter cogitations by the chauffeur speaking. "This is Darrow, Mr. Donald. I don't believe you've seen it, have you? Darrow put in his mill and town while you were away." Donald looked over the motley collection of shacks as the automobile rolled down the single unpaved street. "Filthy hole," he muttered. "Hello! There's one of my late friends from the Sawdust Pile." A woman, standing in the open door of a shanty on the outskirts of the town had made a wry face and thrust out her tongue at him. He lifted his hat gravely, whereat she screamed a curse upon him. An instant later, an empty beer-bottle dropped with a crash in the tonneau, and Donald, turning, beheld in the door of a Darrow groggery one of the Greek fishermen He had dispossessed. "Stop the car!" Donald commanded. "I think that man wants to discuss a matter with me." "Sorry, sir, but I don't think it's wise to obey you just now," his father's chauffeur answered, and trod on the accelerator. "They call that place the 'Bucket of Blood,' and you'll need something more than your fists if you expect to enter there and come out under your own power." "Very well. Some other time, perhaps." "You don't appear to be popular in Darrow, Mr. Donald." "Those people left the Sawdust Pile yesterday--in a hurry," Donald explained. "Naturally, they're still resentful." "They were making quite a little money down there, I believe. Folks do say business was good, and when you take money from that kind of cattle you make a worth-while enemy. If I were you, sir, I'd watch my step in dark alleys, and I'd carry a gun." "When I have to carry a gun to protect myself from vermin like that mulatto and those shifty little Greeks, I'll be a few years older than I am now, Henry. However, I suppose I'd be foolish to neglect your warning to mind my step."