“So, you see, you could leave her all right,” went on Colton. “If it was necessary you could get a nurse down here to look after her while you were away. And you might get home every fortnight or so. Better take my offer, Paine. Come!” with a grunt of impatient amusement, “don't keep me waiting too long. I am not used to coaxing people to work for me; it is usually the other way around. This offer of mine happens to be pretty nearly a disinterested one, and,” with one of his dry smiles, “all my offers are not that kind, as you ought to know. Will you say yes now? Or do you want till to-morrow to think it over?” The news concerning Mother had upset me greatly, but my common-sense was not all gone. That there was something behind his offer I believed, but, even if there were not--if it was disinterested and made simply because my unearthing of the Bay Shore “cat” had caught his fancy--I did not consider for a moment accepting it. Not if Mother was like other women, well and strong, would I have accepted it. In Denboro I was Roscoe Paine, and my life story was my own secret. In New York how long would it be before that secret and my real name were known, and all the old disgrace and scandal resurrected? “What do you say?” asked Colton, again. “Want more time to think about it, do you?” I shook my head. “No,” I answered. “I have had time enough. I am obliged for the offer and I appreciate your kindness, but I cannot accept.” I expected him to express impatience or, perhaps, anger; at least to ask my reasons for declining. But his only utterance was a “Humph!” For a moment he regarded me keenly. Then he said: “Haven't got the answer yet, have I? All right. Well,” briskly, “when are you and I going on that shooting trip?” “There is no shooting at present,” I answered, as soon as I could adjust my mind to this new switch in the conversation. “That so? Any fishing?” “I believe the squiteague are running outside. I heard they were.” “What? Squit--which?” “Squiteague. Weakfish some people call them.” “They are pretty fair sport, aren't they?” “Yes, fair. Nothing like bluefish, however.” “All right. What is the matter with our going squint--squint--something or othering one of these days? Will you go? Or are you as pig-headed about that as you are about other things?” I laughed. “Not quite,” I said. “I should be glad of your company, Mr. Colton.” “Next Saturday suit you?” “Yes. After bank hours.” “All right. I'll look after the boat. You provide the bait and tackle. That's fair, isn't it? Right. Be on hand at my dock at one o'clock. Morning.” He walked off. Neither of us had thought of the tide--he, probably, not realizing that high water was an important factor, and I being too much agitated by what he had said about Mother, and the suddenness with which the fishing trip was planned, to think calmly of anything.