"Mr. Clyde offers to put ten thousand dollars into the deal if he can go to Kalvik with us and help run the cannery," explained Emerson. George looked over the clubman carefully from his curly crown to his slender, high-heeled shoes, then smiled broadly. "It's up to Mr. Emerson. I'm willing if he is." Whereupon, vastly encouraged, Clyde proceeded to expatiate upon his own surpassing qualifications. While he was speaking, a party of three men approached, and seated themselves at an adjoining table. As they pulled out their chairs, Big George chanced to glance in their direction; then he put down his lemonade glass carefully. "What's the matter?" Boyd demanded, in a low tone, for the big fellow's face had suddenly gone livid, while his eyes had widened like those of an enraged animal. "That's him!" George growled, "That's the dirty hound!" "Sit still!" commanded Fraser; for the fisherman had shoved back from the table and was rising, his hands working hungrily, the cords in his neck standing out rigidly. Seeing the murder-light in his companion's eyes, the speaker leaned forward and thrust the big fellow back into the chair from which he had half lifted himself. "Don't make a fool of yourself," he cautioned. Clyde, who had likewise witnessed the giant's remarkable metamorphosis, now inquired its meaning. "That's him!" repeated George, his eyes glaring redly. "That's Willis Marsh." "Where?" Emerson whirled curiously; but there was no need for George to point out his enemy, for one of the strangers stood as if frozen, with his hand upon the back of his chair, an expression of the utmost astonishment upon his face. A smile was dying from his lips. Boyd beheld a plump, thick-set man of thirty-eight in evening dress. There was nothing distinctive about him except, perhaps, his hair, which was of a decided reddish hue. He was light of complexion; his mouth was small and of a rather womanish appearance, due to the full red lips. He was well groomed, well fed, in all ways he was a typical city-bred man. He might have been a broker, though he did not carry the air of any particular profession. That he was, at all events, master of his emotions he soon gave evidence. Raising his brows in recognition, he nodded pleasantly to Balt; then, as if on second thought, excused himself to his companions and stepped toward the other group. The legs of George's chair scraped noisily on the tiles as he rose; the sound covered Fraser's quick admonition: "Take it easy, pal; let him talk." "How do you do, George? What in the name of goodness are you doing here? I hardly recognized you." Marsh's voice was round and musical, his accent Eastern. With an assumption of heartiness, he extended a white-gloved hand, which the big, uncouth man who faced him refused to take. The other three had risen. George seemed to be groping for a retort. Finally he blurted out, hoarsely: "Don't offer me your hand. It's dirty! It's got blood on it!"