“Good night,” answered McKay, and he added under his breath: “I think I’d rather not be Loring in the morning. Too bad! Too bad!” There was a light in Mr. Cameron’s house. As her father tramped up the steps Jean threw open the door and came towards him. Her hair fell in waves over her dressing-gown. The candle in her hand threw its light into eyes which asked an anxious question from beneath their arching brows. “Father, what is the matter?” Jean exclaimed, as Mr. Cameron advanced. “There has been an accident at Number Three hoist,” answered Mr. Cameron. Jean drew a quick sharp breath. “Is Mr. Loring hurt?” she asked, bending forward to look into her father’s face. Mr. Cameron looked at her hard. Then a grim humor glinted in his eyes as he answered: “Loring hurt? Well—not—exactly.” Without a word Jean turned and led the way into the living-room, where the hastily lighted lamp flared high, leaving a smooch of smut on the chimney and casting bright reflections on the rough planks of the board wall. The girl walked calmly to the table and lowered the wick of the lamp. Then she tossed back the masses of her hair, and turning sharply to her father she uttered one word: “Well?” “Well!” echoed Mr. Cameron, throwing himself into a chair by the fireplace. “Well! I should say that was a curious word to describe to-night’s doings.” “What do you mean?” “Mean? I mean that your Mr. Loring is a damned scoundrel.” “I do not believe it. You speak too harshly. You are angry.” “Hum! Perhaps.” Jean stood with downcast eyes. Suddenly she raised them like a condemned man about to receive his sentence. “What has he done?” “He has murdered two Mexicans.” Jean shivered and drew the folds of her dressing gown closer about her. “Mr. Loring murderer! Impossible!” “Nothing is impossible to a man when he is drunk.” “Oh, he was drunk, was he? At the shaft, suppose.” The note of relief in Jean’s tone seemed to add the last touch to Mr. Cameron’s exasperation. “Do you think it was any excuse that Loring was drunk on duty with men’s lives in his hands? You women have a queer code.” “No,” observed Jean, “it is not an excuse. It is an explanation. That I can understand. The other I could not.” “Yes, and I can understand it, too. It means that I was a fool for trusting him. I should never have done it, never!” Jean Cameron stole around to the back of her father’s chair and leaned over till her face almost touched his. “Remember,” she said in a low tone, “if he has lost two lives, he saved one.” “Damn me! Am I likely to forget it?” Mr. Cameron answered, shaking off his daughter’s hands which had been laid lightly on his shoulders. “Why else did I take him on as hoist engineer? It was paying a debt, so I thought. But I had no right to pay at other men’s risk; and after all I had done for him he could not have the decency to keep sober on duty—well, it is too late to think of that now.”