That was the end of a salient demonstration. Routine resumed its placid groove. Time and effort Norquay senior declared and his son-in-law, whose profession was accountancy, agreed, would bring order out of the chaos Grove had wrought. Yes, he had somehow blundered into chaos. And no matter how many other clutching fingers might have been dipped into the trust coffers, Grove had failed to feather his own nest. His personal estate included only his house and his yacht. There was no record of his having ever withdrawn a dollar from trust funds, of receiving more than a liberal salary. His assets didn't include enough cash to bury him. Where, then, did the money go? "Ask Wall, Richston, Deane--that crowd," Charlie Hale muttered, when Rod put the question. "I may be able to tell you after awhile. A few things look very, very fishy. The fact remains that half the so-called assets are junk. There's no mistake about the liabilities. If I can follow certain leads far enough, we may be able to make somebody disgorge. But they're pretty clever. They seem to have got Grove coming and going." "You will have to get crews together soon," his father had told him after Grove's funeral. "I'd put the first crew in on that Horn limit. It's beautiful timber and easy logging. Also start up the old Valdez camp. There are two or three limits on Hardwicke yet, as well. In fact, timber's all we have left. I've hypothecated everything else. I'll look after the town end. The woods will be your field. The weather ought to break soon." The weather had not permitted woods work. But the turn of affairs had sent Rod and his wife and boy almost immediately to Hawk's Nest. The elder Norquay urged them to go. "That's the place for you," he said. "It's our home. It has always been our home. It will be yours, Rod. You can consider it yours now. When I feel my time coming, I shall want to be there too." And his time had come, perhaps a little sooner than he expected, perhaps not sooner than he wished. "My life has been a failure," he said to Rod one day. "I might have made a different man of Grove, if I hadn't been so comfortably secure in the egotistic belief that to be my son was guarantee enough. Oh, I've been blind with the sort of pride that goes before a fall. And I was too harsh. He was proud too. I killed him myself, Rod." He would talk like that, full of grief. And he would go on to speak of expiation, of the obligation upon them to give a steward's account of their trust. "You see," he would repeat, "it was not simply Grove, but what Grove represented, what he sprang from, that bred people's confidence. No casual promoter, no fly-by-night financier could have induced that simple trust on such a scale. People looked beyond him and they saw something that was solid as a rock, that couldn't fail. We must live up to that, somehow." The library door opened. Mary beckoned silently.