THE full Council of the Aurora Clan was assembled. The crude accommodation was wholly inadequate. And many of the members were forced to stand through lack of sitting room amidst the debris of the old steam-heat cellar of the ruins of the lakeside dwelling. But then it was the full Council, and not the Supreme Executive. And its members numbered full twenty.

It was sufficiently grotesque for all the significance lying behind the gathering of these queer figures in their burlesque robes of white. They represented a deadly force in the life of this wide-flung northern country. It was the inevitable reply of those who saw and appreciated the problems and needs of their own existence and were prepared to deal with them without reference to political visions and principles. It was reaction to pristine instinct.

Yes, it was reaction. The fact of it being a council had no relation to democratic method. The Aurora Clan was ruled over by one individual who was called the “Chief Light of the Aurora.” The Chief Light was the brain and the driving force. He was the heart, the soul, and head of the organisation. His rule was despotic. The councillors were his supporters, and the executors of his absolute will. They were possibly, even, advisers, in that they were listened to in council. But, bound under oath, they obeyed the ruling of the Chief Light without question, and under ruthless penalty.

The Aurora Clan was an expression of passionate exasperation. It was an expression of men who saw no hope in the far off councils of self-interested men, who spend their lives in talk. They wanted their own corner of the earth made safe for decent democracy, and were prepared to purge it without regard to the rest of the world’s opinions. Laws might be enacted in those far off councils. They would obey them if they proved adequate in making decent life possible. If they proved otherwise, in view of the needs of their community, they would be simply set aside and other provision would be made.

To achieve its purpose the Aurora Clan viewed the situation with wide-open eyes. It saw things as they were, and refused to consider them through any medium that presented the picture in any different light. It was gazing on the rawest human nature, for all it was tricked out in the fashions of the twentieth century. It was the same human nature that had fought the old-time battle in the darkest ages, unchanged in the smallest degree. So the Clan had adopted the method which has always been the ultimate control when humanity got out of hand. It was the method of earliest man. And it will be the method of the last. It was the appeal of Fear. In the opinion of the controlling mind of the Aurora Clan there was no short cut to any Utopia, or Millennium, or things of that sort. There was even no such condition to arrive at. Life was Self. Simply Self, even if, at times, thinly disguised. And Self could only be sufficiently impressed to keep it within the bounds of reasonable decency by the methods of control which had come down throughout the ages. So the ugly banner of Terror had been raised. Awe, Superstition, Terror.

To the humorous mind the grotesqueness of the gathering must have been without question. Each pair of eyes gazing through rudely cut eye-holes in those conical hoods, if their humour were sufficient, must inevitably have smiled at the sight of the other nineteen ghostly figures squatting or standing about the place with pipes and cigars protruding through mouth-holes in the cloth of their hoods. In this respect these men-ghosts were not sacrificing their comfort for any undue regard for the impression they desired to create. They were there for business. The cellar was without comfort. They might be there for hours. Well, tobacco was no outrage of their principles.

The place reeked with every grade of tobacco smoke. Rank cigars and still ranker pipes had overridden the musty dankness of the atmosphere. Decay in any form was sufficiently abhorrent to the virile youth of this gathering. So each did his best to mask it under the fog of smoke which brought comfort to their souls.

The sitting had been a long one. All sorts of reports from individual councillors had been listened to, voted upon, and upon which the Chief Light, leaning against the central rusted furnace, had given his final decision. There was no secretary to take down any minutes of the meeting. No writing of any sort was permitted. All the business of the Council was done verbally. Sentence was passed on any delinquent reported by the Chief Light, and the work of its execution deputed by word of mouth. None but the Chief Light knew upon whom such tasks devolved. Maybe there was recognition in the voices as each councillor spoke, but that was all. Each member of the Council was known by a numeral which was inscribed on the white front of his gown, and, so long as he might serve on the Council, that would be the only form of identification permitted.

Towards the end of the session a stoutish councillor, with “No. 3” blazoned on the bosom of his cloak, bestirred himself. He made a sign which conveyed his claim to attention. It was given without question. The tall form of the Chief Light was instantly turned in his direction.

“‘No. 3’ has a report for the Council,” he said, in that curious hollow tone which his masking hood gave to his voice. “We’ll take his report next.”

He paused for an instant while the eyes behind his mask surveyed his supporters. Then he went on in the quiet business-like fashion which marked his conduct of affairs at all times.

“There is need for explanation,” he said. “‘Number Three’ was delegated to certain work at a meeting of the Supreme Executive which met in emergency awhile back. Many of this Council were not present at the time. You need to get it that his work was of more than usual importance to the general community. Maybe you’ll all likely remember there was a tough guy called Cy Liskard who blew into the Speedway on the night of Max’s celebration, and raised particular sort of hell there. ‘Number Three’s’ report concerns this man. This man Cy Liskard is reputed to have made a big strike of gold way back on the Lias River. And, anyway, he’s sold big dust at the bank and holds a credit there. It’s reckoned he’s hugging this strike to his bosom and we’ve made it our special business to see, if it’s right, that the field outside his claim is made available to the folks of our city.”

There was a slight but definite movement amongst the Chief Light’s audience. Those who were sitting turned in the direction of ‘Number Three.’ Those who were standing gazed round on the sturdy figure expectantly.

“We’ll take Number Three’s report.”

The Chief Light leant back against his furnace support prepared to listen with the rest.

“Number Three” plunged at once into his story. He began formally, but quickly drifted into the vernacular common to them all.

“By the will of the Supreme Executive I set out to investigate under the orders received. Six Clansmen accompanied me. It was a darn big trip, an’ we were chasing a wily guy an’ a pretty bright trailman. I was lucky in having ‘Number Twenty-Six’ with me, who’s wise to the country of the Lias River. Well, I don’t guess to worry you folks with the details of that trip. We made it all right, all right. We tracked our man right up to his home in the hills. He was there, an’ we doped him and his dogs quiet so we could work easy. And a pretty fancy hiding hole he’s got. It lies well nigh back on the Canadian Border.”

“Number Three” paused. And a shuffling of feet and the clearing of throats indicated the deepening interest of his audience.

“Say, it’s queer,” the sturdy figure went on reflectively. “He’s got a claim there all right. He’s got a swell sluice on a creek, and a big dump of stuff piled around it. He’s got a shanty on the hillside, and corrals for his ponies. He’s got a bunch of trail dogs to carry him anywhere on a winter trail. Then he’s got a swell canoe, and all the gear of the goldman. But—” He broke off and, as he gazed round on his audience, it was almost as if he were smiling behind his mask. “—we couldn’t see he’d washed an ounce of dust since ever he set up his sluice. I want to tell you right here, folks, if there’s a thing I’m a’mighty wise to in this darn country it’s washing the yellow stuff I’ve been chasing twenty years. There’s no guy on the Lias River can put me wise to any notion I haven’t got. Well, I tell you right now that boy hasn’t washed out any gold on that claim ever since it was staked. He’s set it all out. It ’ud look good to a bum tenderfoot. Maybe, even, some of you boys ’ud fall for his show down. But he can’t bluff me a thing. That claim, and all his fancy gear, is a mighty big bluff. That’s all. He hain’t worked fi’ cents of gold—there.

“But he’s passed a big pouch of dust into the bank. We’re wise to that. Where does he work that stuff?” The man paused again. Then a sound came from behind his mask. It was a funereal sort of laugh. “I ain’t wise. But I went through with the job as it was ordered. This guy has been seen chasing around the coast at the mouth of his river. We came right down the length of that river with our eyes wide open for any blamed sign.” He shook his cowled head. “He’s got no workings anywhere along that river. But we found something. Oh, yes. We surely did. It’s a tough coast, and hard to chase up right. There’s a thousand holes an’ corners for a cache an’ that sort of truck. Anyway we located a sort of creek that was hidden all up. It was rocks and overgrowth so we mostly had a hell of a time making our way in. But we got through. And, cached right away up it, cached so as only chance could locate it, we hit on a swell motor boat fit to make a sea trip in tough weather. Yes, we located that, and located something else. She was in elegant shape, and we searched her clear through even to her gasoline tanks. And in one of her lockers we found two bags, canvas bags such as I knew as soon as I set eyes on ’em. They were empty. I turned ’em inside out. There was the remains of dust in ’em caught up in the seams, an’ I made a collection of it. Sir,” he went on, addressing himself directly to the tall figure of the Chief Light, “that’s my report, and I wait for instructions. Ther’s a few bits o’ details I ain’t spoken on that I ken hand you when you got time to go into them. Maybe they signify some. I don’t rightly know. Meanwhile, that’s the report I got to hand to this Council.”

The Chief Light nodded.

“Good,” he said. “I’ll take those details later. Meanwhile, you don’t figger this Cy Liskard is on a strike on his claim?”

Number Three shook his head promptly.

“I don’t say all that, Chief,” he said quickly. “The thing I say is the claim he’s got staked around his home place is sheer bluff. Maybe he’s blinding us. Maybe his claim lies elsewhere. That being so it’ll likely take months locating it.”

At a sign from the Chief Light, full discussion on the report of Number Three broke out. It was dealt with exhaustively. Then the meeting passed on to such other business as claimed it.

Alan Goodchurch was typical of officialdom, but possessing a leavening of real human interest in the life of which he was in official control. In Beacon Glory his prestige stood reasonably high, but simply because of that leavening. In his official capacity as Commissioner of the district and chief collector of revenues for the government he represented, there was no particular goodwill displayed towards him. But then Beacon Glory had no sort of use whatsoever for an authority that had its origin so far away that it required something in the nature of an astronomical telescope to discover its existence. As a man it was wholly different. He was a cheery creature outside his office, alive with kindly sympathy for the difficulties and troubles besetting his fellow-townsmen and really eager for the steady progress and prosperity of the heterogeneous collection of life it was his lot to endeavour to shepherd in its duty towards its Government.

He was a youngish man for his post. But then it was well enough recognised that in this especial locality his was a youngish man’s work. Beacon Glory needed a strong official hand and a strong official mind, and Goodchurch possessed these things arrayed in a tall muscular frame and a large, lean face with pronouncedly square jaws.

Ivor McLagan was on reasonably intimate terms with Goodchurch. It was his business to be so, for whatever the general attitude of the men of Beacon Glory towards their Commissioner, the oil man’s business demanded official goodwill.

It was a moment in Goodchurch’s official life when the human element in him was uppermost. He sat turned away from his desk, lounging in his swivel chair, talking to the engineer and smoking a cigar, the latter a most unusual proceeding in his working hours. McLagan was overflowing a smaller bare wood chair opposite him, and he, too, was smoking one of the Commissioner’s best cigars.

The strong face of Goodchurch was smiling pleasantly, and his keen grey eyes had lost their usual cold stare which had taken him years to cultivate. He shook his head.

“There’s no such darn vessel registered at Boston,” he said. “And there’s no owner yearning to claim anything with a name like the Limpet. That doesn’t leave me guessing. There’s such a thing as insurance. In a while, maybe, we’ll be getting word from some underwriting house. Then the fur’ll fly, and some one’ll be squealing in the Courts. Anyway, the position’s clear. Boston’s never heard of the Limpet and isn’t yearning to.”

McLagan removed his cigar and flicked the ash into an immaculate cuspidor. His narrow eyes surveyed the neat apartment which gave some indication of the man who presided there. It was Goodchurch’s private room in the best commercial block in Beacon which was more than half given up to his staff. He knew well enough the range of this man’s work. It was from the highest to the lowest in the realms of the city’s discipline. And for all the man’s capacity, McLagan felt like smiling at the thought of the net result of his labours.

However, his concern at the moment lay in other directions. This was his last visit to Beacon before setting out on a prolonged exploration into the hills, and he desired the Commissioner’s valuable aid in a direction in which he knew he could rely on it.

He nodded.

“That’s pretty clear,” he said. “What next?”

Goodchurch shook his head.

“There don’t seem to be much to be done—next,” he said thoughtfully. “After all, what is it? A windjammer blows in on to the rocks of this abominable coast. You reckon she’s mostly a cargo of lumber aboard. Well, lumber’s no sort of use on this coast.” He smiled. “Gold’s the only thing, or oil, that’s going to set our folks whooping. There don’t seem to be a soul yearning to claim that craft. Even the folks who quit her.” He shook his head again. “No. There’s not a thing worth doing but what I’ve done. My report’s gone in. That’s usual. I guess I can send a couple of boys down to view things, but if we know anything of the seas beating on this coast line, the storms that drove her on the rocks are liable to hammer her to matchwood in a month or so. And then there’ll be nothing—more.”

McLagan agreed.

“It seems that way,” he said, with an assumption of indifference. “Yet I’ve a sublimely foolish notion there’s something queer behind that wreck. And the notion’s got hold of me good.”

“Queer, eh?” Goodchurch’s eyes narrowed, and he surveyed the cigar in his fingers reflectively. Then he chuckled quietly. “Yes,” he went on. “Insurance. And that’s not in my work—once my report is sent in to my chiefs.”

McLagan bestirred himself. He realised the official horizon of this otherwise excellent man. He stood up.

“I told you I’d got a notion,” he said simply. “Well, I got more. And I’m wondering if you’ll help me out on it. I’ve an idea, more than an idea—a conviction, in fact, that the name of that bunch of wreckage has been changed. It was changed on purpose. Real, desperate purpose. If we can locate the owners and anyone else interested in the Imperial of Bristol, we shall get back of a darn ugly story that’s liable to get your department jumping on a red-hot trail. That’s why I came along now. It’s to give you that before I go right up into the country on a survey that’s going to keep me busy till the summer’s nearly through. I daresay by the time I get back the storming will have left nothing of that wreck on the rocks. It don’t matter. Her story don’t lie in her now. It lies in the owners and crew who are the folks that need finding. You broadcasted before for the other name. Will you do it for this? Will you send it to the newspapers? And pass it right on to any old region that can pick it up? I’d be glad, an’—grateful.”

Goodchurch laughed. He realised the oil man’s earnestness, but it left him quite unaffected.

“Sure, I will, Mac,” he said cordially. “How did you locate the change of name? What’s the story you reckon to discover?”

The other shrugged his heavy shoulders as he flung his cigar stump into the cuspidor.

“It’s clear enough—with the suspicion of it in your mind. I got a close look at the painted names on the boats, and life belts, and anything that had the ship’s name on it. Mostly the change has been made good. But, like all things of that nature, it was a long job and the folks doing it maybe got weary of it. In two cases, at least, I recognised the old name had been painted or scraped out—some of the letters, and others substituted. I’m sure, dead sure.”

“And the story?”

McLagan shook his head and smiled.

“Murder, I’d guess—amongst other things,” he said simply.

“Murder?”

Goodchurch sat up.

“Sure. And I’m looking to find who did it and why.”

Goodchurch whistled.

“That sort of show gets a man.”

“Ye-es.”

“Anything else?”

“If I told you haf the things in my head you’d guess I was bug.”

Goodchurch laughed.

“I’d need more than that to reckon Ivor McLagan that way.” He stood up. “Well, I’ll surely do as you ask, right away. And I guess I’ll take a trip out to view that wreck myself—instead of sending any of the boys.”

McLagan held out a hand which the official gripped with cordiality.

“Why, do,” he said. “And make use of my shanty all you please. My boy’ll be along there if I’m away, and he’ll fix you right. I’ll leave word. An’, say,” he added with a shrewd smile as he moved towards the door, “if you’re not looking for a scare, don’t get aboard of that craft when the sun’s shining.”

“What? Say——”

But McLagan shook his head. “I’m not going to hand you a thing else,” he said laughingly. “I’m not yearning for you to get beyond the limits of your belief in my sanity. Maybe I won’t see you again till I get through with my trip. So long.”

McLagan hurried down the sidewalk in the direction of the Speedway. He was thinking with a concentration that left him oblivious to his surroundings and with only his objective clear in his mind. Once he smiled to himself as the thought of Alan Goodchurch’s remark about his sanity flashed intrusively upon his preoccupation. He felt sure that it was as well for his purpose that he had added nothing of the thing absorbing him now to that which he had imparted to the Commissioner. No. The thing he had in his mind must remain there untold until he had completed the chain of circumstances he saw linking themselves together. Either he was stark, staring, raving mad, or——

He bumped into Victor Burns just outside the banker’s office, and the collision brought him back to his surroundings and the realisation of his friend’s laughing protest.

“Say, you great unmitigated boob, with your two yards of meat, ain’t there room for an ounce or two like me on the same earth?”

McLagan laughed.

“Ounce or two? Say—when two folks collide on the sidewalk it mostly seems to me occasion for discussion. Who is it has right of way? The feller using the sidewalk for its original purpose, or the feller standing around with a figger calculated to set an oil man yearning? I’ve got five minutes for a yarn in your office.”

Burns smiled up into the twinkling eyes.

“Come right in,” he said. “I’ve mostly got five minutes any time of day for the man who reckons to flood Beacon out with oil.”

They passed into the bank and to the private office. McLagan perched his great bulk on the desk and grinned down on his still standing friend.

“Just sit around, Victor,” he said, while the other waited for the purpose lying behind this sudden and unexpected visit. “I want you to talk, to yarn in your own sweet way about the darn stuff you’re here to deal in. I want you to tell me all you know about the stuff. Its grades. Its colours. And the localities where the colours are found, or have been found. I want you to lay bare your golden soul to me the same as from time to time I’ve told you the juicy details of the stuff I spend my life chasing. Can you do it in ten minutes?”

“Not in ten weeks.”

“That’s tough. I’ve got just a haf hour.”

“It was ten minutes last and five before,” laughed the intrigued banker.

“Well, let’s get down to bed rock. I can set you haf-a-dozen questions, and we’ll fix it that way.”

“Have you made a ‘strike’?”

McLagan laughed.

“No, siree! But I’m going to set the questions to this examination.”

“I may sit.”

The banker’s eyes were shining with the humour of the thing. But he was wondering, too. He had never known McLagan to have more than a passing interest in the trade he dealt in. And somehow, he now seemed to be in deadly earnest for all his lightness.

“Sure you may,” the oil man said. “And smoke, too, if you feel that way. It’s good to smoke if you need to think.”

Victor took his place at the desk on which McLagan was sitting and pushed a box of cigars at his guest. He sat back in his chair while the other lit up and regarded him thoughtfully.

“Well?” he demanded, with his hands clasped across his rotund body. “Get busy with those questions.”

“There’s more than one colour to gold?”

“Yes. Quite a number of shades in raw gold.”

“Governed by the locality in which it’s found?”

“Surely. The formations. Reef gold. Alluvial. The copperous qualities of quartz. The climated conditions of the various latitudes in which it is found. A whole heap of influences affect the shades of colour.”

McLagan nodded.

“Now Alaskan gold?”

“It varies the same as the rest.”

“Could you tell Alaskan gold from tropical gold?”

“It depends on circumstances. Generally, yes. I’ve got samples here,” the banker went on quickly, pulling out a drawer beside him.

He lifted out a leather case and flung it open. It held a number of small glass bottles each containing a sample of yellow dust. Each bottle was carefully labelled.

“We keep these as a matter of interest. They’re small samples of each different strike made in the neighbourhood with which we trade. You see? Examine them. Compare them. There’s many differ shades.”

He sat back again while the oil man picked up each bottle in turn and compared them one with the other, and the banker found it profoundly interesting to note the intensity of scrutiny to which the man whose interests had nothing to do with gold examined them.

“Do you realise the varying shades?”

McLagan was holding one bottle, searching its contents closely.

“This is pale sort of stuff,” he said.

The banker looked at the label.

“Reef gold from the Ubishi Hills. It was a poor strike and petered out. Crystal quartz. And too hard to work for the ordinary gold man. It needed big capital.”

McLagan nodded.

“Hardly yellow at all,” he said. “Now this,” he went on, holding up another bottle. “This has a richer colour.”

“Sure. But look where it’s from. The red copperous gravel of Eighty Mile Creek. I’d say, next to some of the big Australian finds, that’s one of the handsomest colours known. Here’s another,” he went on, thrusting another bottle into his visitor’s hand. “It’s nigh as red. It’s like as two peas with the African stuff, and some of the old Californian colour. It might even be from West Australia. But it isn’t. No, it’s Alaskan. And it’s creek gold.”

“Where from?”

“I can’t rightly say—yet. Maybe we’ll learn in good time. We generally do. You see, it’s a sample of the stuff brought in by a boy who’s working along the Lias River territory. That boy I told you of awhile back. The feller you beat over the head at the Speedway the night of its festival. Pretty stuff.”

McLagan was turning the bottle in his hand. He rolled its contents over and over, intently examining its colour and the texture of its grains.

“It’s cleaner than most,” he said presently. “Looks like it was washed by a pretty expert hand. It’s like none of the others. Not even the Eighty Mile stuff. Eighty Mile—that’s on the Canadian side.”

“Yes.” Burns eased himself in his chair. “No. It’s not like any of the other. It looks like tropical stuff, and if I didn’t know better, I’d surely say it was.”

McLagan set the bottle down and sat gazing at it.

“What is there there? An ounce?” he asked, without raising his eyes.

“Half, I’d guess.”

“Can you sell me it?”

Burns chuckled.

“Why, I could, but——”

“Will you?”

McLagan was gazing squarely into the smiling round face before him. The banker’s shrewd mind was thinking quickly. He shook his head.

“No,” he said. “You can have that bottle, a present at my expense. I’m glad when a man like you gets interested in our stuff. Some day, maybe, you’ll quit oil for the other. But, say, won’t you tell me about it? You’ve got me guessing.”

“There just isn’t a thing to tell, Victor.”

“Sure?”

The banker’s eyes were looking squarely into the other’s.

“Not—now.”

“I see.”

McLagan had removed himself from the desk. He still held the bottle with its sample of gold-dust in his hand.

Victor stood up and nodded comprehensively.

“That’s all right, boy,” he said. “If it’s any use, keep that stuff. I’m shipping a mighty big dope of it away by next mail. You’d be astonished if you knew how much. Say, how’s that wreck down your way making out? The folks are all guessing about it. A lumber ship, ain’t it? Any news of the owners yet?”

“Not yet,” McLagan replied. “Guess the seas’ll break her to pieces in a while. Say, Victor, I’m mighty obliged for our talk—and this.” He held up the bottle and then set it in an inner pocket. Then he thrust out a hand in farewell. “Guess I won’t see you for quite awhile. When I do I’ll have big news concerning oil for you. Are you looking to get in?”

“Always.” The banker gripped the outstretched hand.

“Right. I’ll do the best I know for you when the time comes. Thanks.”

McLagan passed out on to the sidewalk again. Just for a moment he stood deeply considering, then he turned away and moved off in the direction where the best dwelling-houses stood something apart from the collection of hovels which made up by far the greater proportion of the city’s home residences.