"The owner of the Rattler, the mine next to us." "He is?" the question was explosive. "Ah, ha! The moth in the closet, eh? So that accounts for it! I spent a hundred dollars, then, to good purpose, it seems to me!" Dick looked an intent and wondering question. "An agent here in Seattle wrote me that they had written you, making an offer of sixty thousand dollars for the property--yes--the same one you wrote me about. He said they had reason to believe I was the financial backer for the mine, and that they now wished to deal with me, inasmuch as you might be carried away by youthful enthusiasm to squandering my hard-earned cash. I wrote back that your judgment satisfied me. Then, just before I left, I got a flat offer of a hundred thousand dollars for the property in full, or seventy-five thousand for my share alone. It set me to thinking, and wondering if some one wasn't trying to cut your feet from under you. So, having business in Portland, I came on up here, and got after this agent." Dick had a chill of apprehension. He knew before the loyal old man had proceeded half-way what to expect. "It cost me a hundred dollars in entertainment, and a lot of apparent readiness to talk business, to get him confidential with me. Then I got the name of the would-be purchaser, under injunctions of secrecy, because those were the agent's positive instructions. The man who wants to buy is Presby!" For one black, unworthy instant, Dick looked out of the window, wondering if it were possible that Joan had known of her father's efforts, and had withheld the information. Then the memory of that gentle face, the candid eyes, her courageous advice, and--last of all--the kiss and prayer on her lips, made him mentally reproach himself for the thought. But he remembered that he still owed affection and deference to the stanch old man who sat before him, who had been his benefactor in an hour of need, and backed faith with money. "Well, sir," he said, turning to meet the kindly eyes, "what do you think of it?" "Think of it? Think of it?" Sloan replied, raising his voice. "I'll tell you my answer. 'You sit down,' I said, 'and write this man Presby that I knew no one in connection with the Croix d'Or but the son of the man who many times befriended me, in desperate situations when I needed it! That I was paying back to the son what I was unfortunately prevented from paying back to the father--a constant gratitude! That I'd see him or any other man in their graves before I'd sell Richard Townsend out in that way. That I'd back Dick Townsend on the Croix d'Or as long as he wanted me to, and that when he gave that up, I'd still back him on any other mine he said was good!' That's what I said!"