“Is there anything else, sir?” the man inquired. Elwell roused himself. “Yes,” he said. “You might start a fire for me; I am cold;” and a shiver running through his frame attested the truth of his words. The man touched a match to the kindling that was already laid in the stove, and, going out, returned with his arms full of slab ends. These he threw into the box by the stove, and then, glancing again at the fire to see that it was burning good, he started to go. “Wait,” said his master harshly; “I want you to do something for me.” The man returned and stood by the desk, while Elwell fumbled through his pockets in an aimless way. Finding some money at last, he threw it down upon the desk. “Whisky,” he said harshly. “Go and get me some whisky; and, mind you, don’t let any one in the yard to-night--_no one!_ Do you understand? That is, no one but Mr. Coleman; he will be here presently.” The man went away, evidently astonished at the millowner’s words and manner. Whisky was the one thing, outside of salt and lumber, that formed the staple of the city of sand and sawdust, so the man had not far to go, and soon returned with an unopened bottle. While he was gone, Elwell had sat immovable, and now, when he returned, his master only nodded and motioned him to go. Seizing the bottle, Elwell managed to extract the cork, and took a hearty swallow. Things were better with him already. He could think, now that it was light and warm, and he had partly recovered from the shock. “Coleman will soon be here,” he thought, more hopefully, “and we will think of some way out of this.” And he took another swallow of the strong liquor, and paced impatiently up and down the little office, waiting for his friend and confidant. How had she ever found her way to this little out-of-the-way place? He had always been a fatalist. This was fate. What but fate could send that ignorant country girl into the wilds of northern Michigan just in time to confound him? But after all, what of it? Fate had struck at him before this, and he had conquered. He was a coward, he thought, with great self-contempt, to get frightened so easily. He had his divorce. How were they to know that it was not legal? And what could those poor country folks do against the power of his money? And he drank more whisky and grew reckless. “This will be easily settled,” he thought confidently, “and it is better to have done with it. It has been hanging over me like the sword of Damocles long enough.” He would settle it now, and he became more impatient as the moments passed. Why did not Coleman come? Presently he heard him coming, and opened the office door that he might see his way better. If he had recovered from his fright, Peter had not, for he looked pale and disturbed. “What kept you so long?” inquired Elwell, as he entered. “Long?” repeated Coleman, out of temper. “What the devil did you expect; that I was to take care of all those people and get here as soon as you did?”