When the boat reached the schooner Dampier went off with one of the men, and with difficulty contrived to make a landing on the ice only to find it covered with a trackless sheet of slushy snow. Though Dampier floundered shorewards a mile or two, there was nothing except the shattered boat to suggest what had befallen Wyllard and his companions. The skipper, who retraced his steps with a heavy heart, retained little hope of seeing them again. Dampier waited two days until a strong breeze blew him off the ice, which was rapidly breaking up, and he then stood out for the open sea, where he hove the Selache to for a week or so. After that he proceeded northward to the inlet Wyllard and he had agreed to.

Dampier was convinced that this was useless, but as the opening was almost clear of ice he sailed the schooner in, and spent a week or two scouring the surrounding country. He found it a desolation, still partly covered with slushy snow, out of which ridges of volcanic rock rose here and there. On two of these spots a couple of days’ march from the schooner, he made a depÔt of provisions, and piled a heap of stones beside them. At times, when it was clear, he could see the top of a great range high up against the western sky, but those times were rare. For the most part, the wilderness was swept by rain or wrapped in clammy fog.

There was, however, no sign of Wyllard, and at last Dampier, coming back jaded and dejected from another fruitless search, after the time agreed upon had expired, shut himself up alone for a couple of hours in the little cabin. He was certain now that Wyllard and his companions had been drowned while attempting to make a landing on the ice, since they would have joined him at the inlet as arranged had this not been the case. The distance was by no means great, and there were no Russian settlements on that part of the coast. The skipper sat very still with a clenched hand upon the little table, balancing conjecture against conjecture, and then regretfully decided that there was only one course open to him. It was dark when he went up on deck again, but the men were sitting smoking about the windlass forward.

“You can heave some of that cable in, boys,” he announced. “We’ll clear out for Vancouver at sun-up.”

The men said nothing, but they shipped the levers, and Dampier went back to the cabin, for the clank of the windlass and the ringing of the cable jarred upon him.

Early next morning the Selache stood out to sea, and once they had left behind them the fog and rain near the coast, she carried fine weather with her across the Pacific. On reaching Vancouver, Dampier had some trouble with the authorities, to whom it was necessary to report the drowning of three of his crew, but he was more fortunate than he expected, and after placing the schooner for sale with a broker, he left the city one evening on the Atlantic train. Three days later he was driving across the prairie towards the Hastings homestead. The members were sitting together in the big general room after supper, when the wagon Dampier had hired swung into sight over the crest of a hill.

It was a still, hot evening, and, as the windows were open wide, a faint beat of hoofs came up across the tall wheat and dusty prairie before the wagon topped the rise. Hastings, who sat in a cane chair near the window, with his pipe in his hand, looked up as he heard it.

“Somebody driving in,” he remarked. “I shouldn’t be astonished if it’s Gregory. He talked about coming over the last time I saw him.”

“If he wants to talk about a deal in wheat, he can stay away,” said Mrs. Hastings sharply. “If all one hears is true, he has lost quite a few of Harry’s dollars on the market lately.”

Hastings looked troubled at this. “I’d sooner think it was his own money he’d thrown away.”

“That’s quite out of the question. He hasn’t any.”

“Well,” said Hastings, with an air of reflection, “I’ll get Sproatly to make inquiries. He’ll probably be along with Winifred this evening, and if he finds that Gregory is getting in rather deep I’ll have a word or two with him. I can’t have him wasting Harry’s money, and, as one of the executors, I have a right to protest.”

Agatha started at the last word. It had an ominous ring, and she fancied that Hastings had noticed the effect on her, for he glanced at her curiously. Turning from him, she rose and walked to the window.

The wheat stretched across the foreground, tall and darkly green, and beyond it the white grass ran back to the hill, which cut sharply against a red and smoky glow. The sun had gone down some time before, and there was an exhilarating coolness in the air. Somehow the sight reminded her of another evening, when she had looked out across the prairie from a seat at Wyllard’s table. Almost a year had passed since then.

The wagon drew nearer down the long slope of the hill, and the beat of hoofs that grew steadily louder in a sharp staccato made the memories clearer. She had heard Dampier riding in the night Wyllard had received his summons, and now she wondered who the approaching stranger was, and what his business could be. She did not know why, but she thought it was not Gregory.

Presently Hastings looked round again. “It’s the team Bramfield hires out at the settlement,” he said. “None of our friends would get him to drive them in. There seem to be two men in the wagon. Bramfield will be one. I can’t make out the other.”

Mrs. Hastings, who was evidently becoming curious about the unexpected guest, went to his side, and they stood watching the wagon until Agatha made an abrupt movement.

“It’s Captain Dampier!” she exclaimed with foreboding in her voice.

She stood tensely still, with lips slightly parted, and a strained look in her eyes, while Hastings gazed at the wagon for another moment or two.

“Yes,” he said, and his voice was harsh, “it’s Dampier. The other man’s surely Bramfield. Harry’s not with him.”

He glanced at Agatha, who turned away, and sat down in the nearest chair. She made no comment, and there was an oppressive silence, through which the beat of hoofs and rattle of wheels rang more distinctly.

It seemed a long time before Dampier came in. He shook hands with Agatha and Mrs. Hastings diffidently.

“You remember me?” he asked.

“Of course,” answered Mrs. Hastings, with impatience in her tone. “Where’s Harry?”

The skipper spread a hard hand out, and sat down heavily.

“That,” he said, “is what I have to tell you. He asked me to.”

“He asked you to?” questioned Agatha, and though her voice was strained there was relief in it.

Dampier made a gesture, which seemed to beseech her patience.

“Yes,” he said, “if—anything went wrong—he told me I was to come here to Mrs. Hastings.”

Agatha turned her head away, but Mrs. Hastings saw that she caught her breath before she cried:

“Then something has gone wrong!”

“About as wrong as it could.” Dampier met her gaze gravely. “Wyllard and two other men are drowned.”

He paused as if watching for words that might soften the dire meaning of his message, and Mrs. Hastings saw Agatha shiver. The girl turned slowly around with a drawn white face. It was, however, Hastings who spoke, almost sternly.

“Go on,” he said.

“I’m to tell you all?”

This time it was Agatha who broke in.

“Yes,” she replied, with a steadiness that struck the others as being strained and unnatural, “you must tell us all.”

Dampier, who appeared to shrink from his task, began awkwardly, but he gained coherence and force of expression as he proceeded. He made them understand something of the grim resolution which had animated Wyllard. He pictured, in terse seaman’s words, the little schooner plunging to windward over long phalanxes of icy seas, or crawling white with snow through the blinding fog. His listeners saw the big combers tumbling ready to break short upon the dipping bows, and half-frozen men struggling for dear life with folds of madly thrashing sail. The pictures were necessarily somewhat blurred and hazy, for after all only an epic poet could fittingly describe the things that must be done and borne at sea, and epic poets are not bred in the forecastle. When he reached the last scene he gained dramatic power, and Agatha’s face grew white and tense. She saw the dim figures pulling the boat through the flying spray beneath the wall of ice.

“We ran her in,” he told them, “with the snow blinding us. It was working up for a heavy blow, and as we’d have to beat her out we couldn’t take sail off her. We stood on until we heard the sea along the edge of the ice, and then there was nothing to do but jam her on the wind and thrash her clear. There was only a plank or two of the boat, an oar, and Charly’s cap, when we came back again!”

“After all, though the boat was smashed, they might have gotten out,” Hastings suggested.

“Well,” said Dampier simply, “it didn’t seem likely. The ice was sharp and ragged, and there was a long wash of sea. A man’s not tough enough to stand much of that kind of hammering.”

Agatha’s face grew whiter, but Dampier went on again.

“Anyway,” he said, “they didn’t turn up at the inlet as we’d fixed, and that decided the thing. If Wyllard had been alive, he surely would have been there.”

“Isn’t it just possible that he might have fallen into the hands of the Russians?” asked Hastings.

“I naturally thought of that, but so far as the chart shows there isn’t a settlement within leagues of the spot. Besides, supposing the Russians had got him, how could I have helped him? They’d have sent him off in the first place to one of the bigger settlements in the South, and if the authorities couldn’t have connected him with any illegal sealing they’d no doubt have managed to send him across to Japan by and by. In that case, he’d have gotten home without any trouble.”

Dampier paused, and it was significant that he turned to Agatha with a deprecatory gesture.

“No,” he added, “there was nothing I could do.”

It was evident that Agatha acquitted him, but she asked a question.

“Captain Dampier,” she said, “had you any expectation of finding those three men when you sailed the second time?”

“No,” acknowledged the bronzed sailor, with an impressive calmness, “I hadn’t any, and I don’t think Wyllard had either. Still, he meant to make quite certain. He felt he had to.”

The skipper gazed at Agatha, and saw comprehension in her eyes.

“Yes,” she observed with an unsteady voice, “and when you have said that, you could say very little more of any man.”

She turned her head away from them, and for a few moments there was a heavy silence in the room. It cost the girl a painful effort to sit still, apparently unmoved, but there was strength in her, and she would not betray her distress. She felt that her grief must be endured bravely. It was almost overwhelming, but there was mingled with it a faint consolatory thrill of pride, for it was clear that the man who had loved her had done a splendid thing. He had given all that had been given him—she knew she would never forget that phrase of his—willingly, and it seemed to her that the traits with which he had been endowed were rare and precious ones. She recognized the steadfast, unflinching courage, and the fine sense of honor which had sent him out on that forlorn hope. Unyielding and undismayed he had gone down to death—she felt sure of that—amid the blinding snow.

Mrs. Hastings set food before Dampier. By and by Sproatly and Winifred arrived and they heard the story. After that Dampier, who had promised to stay with them a day or two, left Wyllard’s friends for an hour.

“It seems to me you’ll naturally want to talk over things,” he said; “if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take a stroll across the prairie.”

He went out, and Hastings looked at each member of the little group with hasty scrutiny.

“Harry’s friends are numerous, but we’re, perhaps, the nearest, and, as Dampier said, we have to consider things,” he observed, speaking with deliberation. “To begin with, there’s a certain possibility that he has escaped, after all.”

He saw the quick movement that Agatha made, and went on more quickly.

“Gregory, of course, has control of the Range until we have proof of Harry’s death, though Wyllard made a proviso that if there was no word of the party within eighteen months after he had sailed, or within six months of the time Dampier had landed him, we could assume it, after which the will he handed me would take effect. This, it is evident, leaves Gregory in charge for some months yet, but it seems to me it’s our duty to see he doesn’t fling away Harry’s property. I’ve reasons for believing that he has been doing it lately.”

He looked at Sproatly, who sat silent a moment or two.

“I’m rather awkwardly placed,” Sproatly remarked. “You see, there’s no doubt that I’m indebted to Gregory.”

Winifred turned to him with impatience in her eyes. “Then,” she said severely, “you certainly shouldn’t have been, and it ought to be quite clear that nobody wishes you to do anything that would hurt him.” She looked at Hastings. “In case the will takes effect, who does the property go to?”

Hastings appeared embarrassed. “That,” he objected, “is a thing I’m not warranted in telling you now.”

A suggestive gleam flashed into Winifred’s eyes, but it vanished and her manner became authoritative when she turned back to Sproatly.

“Jim,” she said, “you will tell Mr. Hastings all you know.”

Sproatly made a gesture of resignation. “After all,” he admitted, “I think it’s necessary. Gregory, as I’ve told you already, put a big mortgage on his place, and, in view of the price of wheat and the state of his crop, it’s evident that he must have had some difficulty in meeting the interest, unless—and one or two things suggest this—he paid it with Harry’s money. Of course, as Harry gave him a share, there’s no reason why he shouldn’t do this so long as he does not overdraw that share. There’s no doubt, however, that he has lost a good deal of money on the wheat market.”

“Has he lost any of Harry’s?” Mrs. Hastings asked.

Sproatly hesitated. “I’m afraid it’s practically certain.”

Winifred broke in. “Yes,” she asserted, “he has lost a great deal. Hamilton knows almost everything that’s going on, and I got it out of him. He’s a friend of Wyllard’s, and seems vexed with Gregory.”

The others did not speak for a moment or two, and then Mrs. Hastings said:

“Most of us don’t keep much in the bank, and that expedition must have cost Harry several thousand dollars. How would Gregory get hold of the money before harvest?”

“Edmonds, who holds his mortgage, would let him have it,” Sproatly explained.

“But wouldn’t he be afraid of Gregory not being able to pay, if the market went against him?”

Sproatly looked thoughtful. “The arrangement Wyllard made with Gregory would, perhaps, give Edmonds a claim upon the Range if Gregory borrowed any money in his name. I almost think that’s what the money-lender is scheming for. The man’s cunning enough for anything. I don’t like him.”

Hastings stood up with an air of resolution. “Yes,” he said, “I’m afraid you’re quite correct. Anyway, I’ll drive over in a day or two, and have a talk with Gregory.”

After that they separated. Hastings strolled away to join Dampier.

Sproatly and Winifred walked out on to the prairie. When they had left the house Sproatly turned to his companion.

“Why did you insist upon my telling them what I did?” he asked.

“Oh!” answered Winifred, “I had several reasons. For one thing, when I first came out feeling very forlorn and friendless, it was Wyllard who sent me to the elevator, and they really treat me very decently.”

“They?” repeated Sproatly with resentment in his face. “If you mean Hamilton, it seems to me that he treats you with an excess of decency that there’s no occasion for.”

Winifred laughed. “In any case, he doesn’t drive me out here every two or three weeks, though”—she glanced at her companion provokingly—“he once or twice suggested that he would like to.”

“I suppose you pointed out his presumption?”

“No,” confessed Winifred with an air of reflection, “I didn’t go quite so far as that. After all, the man is my employer; I had to handle him tactfully.”

“He won’t be your employer a week after the implement people open their new depÔt,” returned Sproatly resolutely. “But we’re getting away from the subject. Have you any more reasons for concerning yourself about what Gregory does with Wyllard’s property?”

“I’ve one; I suppose you don’t know who he has left at least a part of it to?”

Sproatly started as an idea crept into his mind.

“I wonder if you’re right,” he said.

“I feel reasonably sure of it.” Winifred smiled. “In fact, that’s partly why I don’t want Gregory to throw any more of Wyllard’s money away. You have done all I expect from you.”

“Then Hastings is to go on with the thing?”

“Hastings,” Winifred assured him, “will fail—just as you would. This is a matter which requires to be handled delicately—and effectively.”

“Then who is going to undertake it?”

Winifred laughed. “Oh,” she answered, “a woman, naturally. I’m going back by and by to have a word or two with Mrs. Hastings.”