FOR all the glory of the night had waned, lost in the deeper shadows of the hour before dawn, the house stood out stark and decaying on the low foreshore of the lake. Once upon a time the place had represented luxury. It had possessed an enclosure where its owner had sought to cultivate a flower garden about it. There had also been a pile-built landing at the water’s edge, and a stout boat house. There had even been a roadway approach from the city which was more than a mile distant. But, like the house itself, these things had long since yielded to the fierce battle of the elements. A few up-standing timber-baulks reared their rotting heads above the water. The original fencing of the enclosure lay rotting on the ground, and the roadway to the city was almost completely submerged by the encroaching waters. For the most part the house was well-nigh roofless. The shingles had been torn from their places, and the underlying joists stood out bare to the storms which swept the plain in the howling winter season.

It was a relic of the vaunting days of the boom of Beacon Glory when easy money so often robbed even the astuter souls of that longer vision of which they stood in so much need. It had doubtless been the pride of some more than usually fortunate creature’s heart, who yearned to possess a lake-side summer residence. There were many signs about it to give such an impression. There were the remains of the deep-roofed stoop for lounging in the sweltering heat of summer. There were the French casement window frames overlooking the lake. Then the woodwork and the joinery were of the finest quality, while the whole planning suggested a type so beloved of the heart of New England.

But now, with the waters of the lake lapping about the foundations of the verandah, with the garden and the roadway approach a partly submerged wilderness, in the chill windlessness of the last of the night, the place only added to the general impression of distance and darkness and utter desolation.

The moon had lost its cold brilliance. It lay fallen from its high estate in the dome of the heavens, lolling wearily, a dull yellow disc just above the horizon. The stars, too, had yielded their twinkling brightness, while the cold fires of the Aurora were burning low, and their ceaseless movement suggested a hasty, disorderly retreat to the mysterious fastnesses of the northern world which had given them birth.

Yet life was stirring, and it centred about this derelict habitation.

Two men had passed the rotting fencing and made their way through the tangle of growth to the back entrance, which clearly opened into the kitchen premises. They paused before the closed door and remained talking in low tones for some moments, then one of them, a man of big physique, raised a clenched hand and his knuckles rapped sharply and peculiarly on the resounding woodwork. There was a further moment of delay, then the door swung open inwards, and the darkness beyond swallowed up the newly arrived visitors.

After awhile there came a further arrival. He was a stoutish creature who gazed searchingly about him in the darkness before passing on beyond the line of the containing fence. But finally he, too, passed from view as had the earlier comers, and the engulfing solitude in which the derelict habitation was wrapped returned to its unbroken sway.

After that, in quick succession, there were two further arrivals. They came, both of them, from the direction of the sleeping city. They came singly, and in each case their approach was in similar method to those who came before. It was as if rule governed them, they approached cautiously, peering and listening in the dim twilight of the night. Then came the signal knock upon the door, and after that the gaping darkness of the interior swallowed them up in the voiceless mechanical fashion which suggested a contrivance controlled from somewhere in the far interior of the deserted habitation.

As the last of the five visitors passed into the house there came the sound of the bolting and barring of the entrance door, and the final operation was completed just as the first streak of dawn transformed the eastern horizon, and brought forth the waking chorus of the wild fowl upon the lake.

The room was bare of all ordinary furnishings. The brick walls were cracked and decayed and discoloured with damp patches. It was a windowless apartment containing the rusted boiler and gear of a steam-heat furnace. In one corner lay a small quantity of anthracite coal and a rusted shovel, and the concrete floor of the place was a-litter with rubbish and damp patches, and odds and ends of old packing-cases clearly left there for the original purpose of kindling.

The place was lit by an oil lamp suspended on a hook in one of the timber joists supporting the floor of the house above, and by its dim, yellow light four white-robed figures, with their sugar-loaf hoods, pierced with eye-holes, were revealed lounging on such of the upturned packing-cases as afforded reasonable security. A fifth was standing, leaning in his immaculate garment against the rusted side of the derelict furnace.

It was a spectacle for humour to witness these queer, ghostly figures in their secret haunt, holding solemn conclave in a cellar which in ordinary life probably nothing on earth would have induced any of them to enter. But their purpose was utterly and completely serious. They formed the Supreme Executive of the “Council of the Northern Lights,” which was the whole control of the great body of the men of the Aurora Clan.

The big man at the furnace was clearly the leader and prime moving spirit of the organisation, and he was talking in the cold, hard fashion which so much suggested his position. His whole manner was that of keen command, but for all the coldness of his tone there was neither roughness of language nor the least vaunting display of authority.

“We needed this council right away,” he said. “We need to take a clear decision before the sun gets up. That’s why I sent you boys word when maybe you were yearning to make good the sleep you’re needing. We’ve had a busy night. And I reckon, as a result of it, we’ve a busy time in the future.”

He paused. His hooded head was raised so that its eye-holes were directed at the lantern above him, which had begun to splutter. As the flame settled again to its business he went on:

“Our job is primarily to clean up some of the muck lying about our city. I know that. But I never had any doubts, from the moment of our foundation, that an endeavour like ours might easily lead us into other work—other responsibilities. The logic of the whole position is simple. If we reckon to clean up the muck of the city, we also need to set its furniture into decent order. It’s no use setting hogs to live in a palace. If we’re cleaning up morals, let’s look to folks’ rights.”

He paused again. This time he was listening acutely. There was a sound drifting somewhere out over the bosom of the lake. It was the rising of the wind as the sun approached the horizon.

“Now, boys,” he went on, speaking more hastily, “I don’t want to keep you from the sleep you’re all needing, but this is the proposition as a result of this night’s work. Beacon stands right at the crossways to-day. Maybe soon there’ll be a flood of oil come to its rescue through those folks on the Alsek River. That, I guess, is in the lap of the gods and the feller running it. Then there’s the other thing—gold. It was gold that raised this city. Well, Beacon can go up, or further down, as a result of those two things. A big gold strike or a big oil strike, can send her sky high. That’s all right. But it seems to me our work demands that whether it’s the feller, McLagan, with his oil, or any other boy with gold, we need to see that Beacon gets its due success as a result of any strike in its neighbourhood. I guess McLagan’ll play white. If he don’t the remedy is with our Clan. But the gold boys are more difficult.”

He stood up from the rusty stove, and his white robe was sadly besmirched, but he gave no heed and went on sharply and with obvious feeling.

“It’s that feller, Cy Liskard, we’ve been dealing with to-night. I believe he’s made a strike that looks like transforming Beacon from a derelict city to a hive of prosperity.”

There was a movement amongst his audience which clearly displayed the impression, the effect of the magic of gold upon these men of the gold city. A voice came back at him out of one of the hoods.

“He comes from the Lias River.”

“I’ve heard that, too.”

“An’ the Lias River runs right back into the mountains, hundreds of miles,” said the same voice.

“Sure.” The man at the stove nodded his cowled head. “That’s so. It runs right back into Canadian territory. If that feller has made a big strike, and I know he has, Beacon should know it. No feller’s entitled to more than his claim. Beacon should know the place. Beacon should have a right to jump in, too. There’s decent men and women with as much right as Cy Liskard, and maybe more, to handle the wealth of this territory, and it’s up to us to hand them the chance. We ask ’em to live clean and wholesome. Well, we’ve the right to show ’em how, and help ’em. We must send a bunch to the Lias River and locate this strike. We must respect Liskard’s claim, whether it’s in Alaskan or Canadian Territory, but we want its secret for the folks of Beacon. Well?”

Discussion followed promptly. It came in the quick, hot fashion of men whose main outlook on life is bounded by the precious metal that first brought their city into being. And the discussion tended to complete agreement with the man whose guidance they had accepted.

The leader listened closely to every argument his council put forth. He agreed to, or negatived, each argument with calm impartiality, and when, at last, nothing further was forthcoming from his Counsellors, he leant again against his supporting stove, and raised up one warning hand in sign that the debate was finished.

“I put the proposition,” he said formally, “we appoint a bunch of the boys to investigate on the lines we’ve laid down. There must be no other action taken. The man must be shadowed to his destination. His movements must be watched, and when the discovery is complete, or sufficient has been ascertained of the whereabouts of his strike, full report must be made to this council. Then we will decide on procedure. There are gold men amongst us, but our oath must prevail. The result of this investigation is for the community of Beacon Glory, regardless of all individual personal interests. Is it agreed?”

The prompt show of hands was unanimous. Finally the “Chief Light of the Aurora” himself raised his right hand.

One by one the hands were lowered and the leader spoke again:

“It’s sufficient. The investigators will set out forthwith. We shall need a competent leader for the work. Therefore, I call on you, Number Three,” he said, pointing at the stoutish figure sitting third amongst his audience. “You are best qualified in every way. You have years of the gold trail behind you, and you will know how best to deal with any opposition you may encounter from this man. The meeting is closed.”

He reached up and unhooked the lantern in the roof. The next moment the cellar was in complete darkness.