CROWLEY, standing in front of Latisan, twisted his countenance into an expression of deprecatory, appealing remorse.

“I have taken the liberty of apologizing to the young lady, sir! Now that I know how matters stand, I want to beg your pardon very humbly. I haven’t meant anything wrong, but a man of my style gets cheeky without realizing it.”

Latisan had come off well in his interview with Echford Flagg. The old man seemed to be in a chastened mood. When he had been informed of the part the girl was playing, the master had admitted that the right kind of a woman can influence a man to his own good.

Therefore, when the drive master strode down the hill, the radiance of his expansive joy had cleared out all the shadows. He was willing to meet a penitent halfway. He put out his hand frankly. Crowley held to the hand for a moment and put his other palm upon Latisan’s shoulder. “Congratulations! I know my place, now that it has become a man-to-man matter between us. But before—well, I’ll tell you, Mr. Latisan, I had met Miss Jones in New York in a sort of a business way and I was probably a little fresh in trying to keep up the acquaintance.”

Latisan had extricated his hand, intending to hurry on about his affairs. But here was a person who seemed to be in a way to tell him something more definite about one who was baffling his wild anxiety to fathom her real identity. However, Latisan did not dare to ask questions. His own pride and the spirit of protecting her reasons for reticence, if she had any, fettered his tongue; he was ashamed to admit to this man, whom he had so recently hated, that the real character of a fiancÉe was a closed book.

“Honestly, she ought to have told you that she knew me,” complained Crowley. “It would have saved all that trouble between you and me.” He rubbed his ear reminiscently. “But perhaps she did,” he pursued, affecting to misinterpret the hardness which had come into Latisan’s face. “But how she could say anything against me, as far as she and I are concerned, I can’t understand.”

“She has not mentioned you to me,” returned Latisan, curtly.

“That’s queer, too,” said Crowley, wrinkling his brow, his demeanor adding to the young man’s conviction that the whole situation was decidedly queer. Once more the smoldering embers were showing red flames! “Mr. Latisan, get me right, now! I don’t propose to discuss the young lady, seeing what she is to you. But perhaps you’ll allow me to refer back to what you said to me, personally, in the tavern a little while ago. We can make that our own business, can’t we?”

Crowley accepted a stiff nod as his answer and went on. “You told me that you are going back to the drive because the young lady has insisted on your doing so. That right?”

“It is. But I fail to see how you can make it any part of your business and mine.”

“It happens to belong in my business.” He put his hand to his breast pocket as if to reassure himself. He proceeded with more confidence. “Are you afraid of the truth, Mr. Latisan—scared to meet it face to face in a showdown?”

“I’m in the habit of going after the truth, no matter where it hides itself.”

“Then I guess you’d better come along with me. I’ve got to the point where I’ve got to have the truth, too, or else fetch up in a crazy house.”

Crowley’s determination was set definitely on his mind’s single track. If a man had an urgent reason for doing a certain thing and the compelling reason were removed, he might naturally be expected to do something else, Crowley figured.

If Latisan proposed to go back to work because his love and allegiance caused him to obey a girl’s commands, he would do the opposite of what she asked if his love and confidence were destroyed. It seemed to be a case of two and two making four, as Crowley viewed the thing. He was done with tangled subtleties.

He put his hand again on his breast pocket as he walked with the drive master down the hill. There was a letter in that pocket; Crowley had purloined it from the girl’s bureau that day when he had so quickly returned from following her. And he also had a telegram in that pocket; the wire had come along that morning, addressed to Miss Patsy Jones, in his care.

The job, as Crowley understood orders, was to keep Latisan off the river that season. Crowley saw a way of doing that job and of getting the credit for the performance.

The girl, staring through the window with strained attention, noting every detail of the meeting, seeing the appearance of amity and of understanding, beholding Crowley put his hand on Latisan’s shoulder in the pose of friendly adviser, suspected the worst; she was stricken with anguished certainty when Latisan strode toward the tavern; according to her belief, two men were now arrayed against her. The drive master’s haste indicated that she had been betrayed by the sullen botcher of methods.

In that room she felt like a creature that had been run to cover—cornered. She wanted to escape into the open. There was honesty outside, anyway, under the sky, at the edge of the forest, where the thunder of the great falls made human voices and mortal affairs so petty by contrast.

She ran through the tavern office and faced Latisan in the yard; there were curious spectators on the porch, the loungers of the hamlet, but she paid no attention to them; she was searching the countenance of Latisan, avidly anxious, fearfully uncertain regarding what mischief had been wrought in him.

He smiled tenderly, flourishing a salute. “All serene in the big house!”

The white was succeeded by a flush in her cheeks. She looked up into his honest eyes and was thrilled by an emotion that was new to her. It was impossible not to answer back to that earnest affection he was expressing. Gratitude glowed in her—and gratitude is a sister of love!

“I beg your pardon,” put in Crowley, “But can’t the three of us step inside and have a little private talk?”

He made a gesture to indicate the gallery of listeners on the tavern porch.

Once that morning Lida had found protection by handling an important crisis in a public place. She was having no time just then to think clearly. She was feeling sure of Latisan, after his look into her eyes. She mustered a smile and shook her head when the drive master mutely referred the matter to her, raising his eyebrows inquiringly.

“You’d better,” warned Crowley, bridling.

The girl felt that she had no option except to keep on in the bold course she had marked for herself. She could not conceive that the operative would prejudice the Vose-Mern proposition in public. “I cannot understand what private matters we three have in common, sir. I have no desire to listen. Mr. Latisan has no time, I’m sure. He is leaving for the north country.”

“That’s true,” agreed Latisan, under the spell of her gaze, won by her, loyal in all his fiber, determined to exclude all others in the world from the partnership of two. He had put aside his anxiety to know what she had been in the city, as Crowley knew her; that quest seemed to be disloyalty to her. “I’m starting mighty sudden! Sorry, sir! Let Brophy put your business with us in his refrigerator till the drive is down.”

Careless of the onlookers, the girl patted his cheek, encouraging his stand. “Till our drive is down. Remember, it’s ours!” she whispered.

“Harness in my horses,” Latisan called to Brophy’s nephew in the door of the tavern stable.

She was human; she was a girl; Latisan’s manner assured her that she had won her battle with Crowley, whatever might have been the methods by which he had tried to prevail over the drive master. She could not resist the impulse to give the Vose-Mern operative a challenging look of triumph that was lighted by the joy of her victory.

Crowley’s slow mind speeded up on its one track; he opened the throttle, smash or no smash! He marched up to Latisan and displayed a badge, dredging it from his trousers pocket. “That’s what I am, mister, an operative for a detective agency. So is she!”

“I am not,” she declared defiantly.

“Maybe not, after your flop in this case. But you were when you struck this place, if your word means anything!”

“You’re a liar,” shouted Latisan. He doubled his fist and drew it back; the girl seized the hand and unclasped the knotted grip and braided her fingers with his.

“I don’t blame you, Latisan. It’s natural for you to feel that way toward me right now,” agreed Crowley. “She has slipped the cross-tag onto you. But you’re no fool. I don’t ask you to take my word. Go down to that railroad station and wire to an address I’ll give you in New York. Ask her if she dares to have you do it.”

There was no longer a smolder in Latisan—it was all a red flame!

He had not realized till then how penetratingly deep had been his conviction that this girl was something other than she assumed to be.

Crowley pulled a letter from his pocket, flapped it open, and shoved it under Latisan’s nose.

There was no further attempt to deal behind doors with the affair. It was in Crowley’s mind, then, that spreading the situation wide open before the gaping throng, which was increasing, crowding about in a narrowing circle, would assist his plan to make intolerable Latisan’s stay in that region.

“Look at the letterhead—Vose-Mern Agency! Look and you’ll see that it’s addressed to Miss Patsy Jones, Adonia. Take it and read it! It’s orders to her from the chief!”

Latisan was plainly in no state of mind to read; he crumpled the letter in his hand and stuffed the paper into his trousers pocket.

“Here’s a telegram,” continued the operative. “It’s for her to go back to New York. It hasn’t been enough for her to double-cross you; she’s doing the same thing to the folks who have hired her. Nice kind of dame, eh? I don’t know just what her game is, friend! But I’m coming across to you and tell you that the big idea is to keep you off the drive this season. Good money has been put up to turn the trick.”In the midst of the whirling torches which made up his thoughts just then, Latisan was not able to give sane consideration to her zeal in urging him to duty; he was conscious only of the revelation of her character. Out of the city had come some kind of a design to undo him!

The village was still agog with the news of his engagement; the news bureaus on legs had gone north to tattle the thing among all the camps; and she was a detective sent to beguile him! The faces of the bystanders were creasing into grins.

“Ask her!” urged Crowley, relentlessly. “Or ask New York.”

Postponement of the truth was futile; denial was dangerous; a confession forced by an appeal to New York would discredit her motives; she had not formally severed her connection with the agency. She determined to meet this man of the woods on his own plane of honesty.

“Come with me where we can talk privately,” she urged; her demeanor told Latisan that she was not able to back the defiant stand he had taken with Crowley a moment before.

“It’s too late now,” he objected, getting his emotions partly under control. “The thing has been advertised too much to have any privacy about it now. When they are left to guess things in this section the guessing is awful! I’m never afraid to face men with the truth. He has said you came here as a detective. Those men standing around heard him. What have you to say?”

“Won’t you let me talk to you alone?”“If I’m to stand up here before men after this, the facts will have to come out later; they may as well come out now.”

He spoke mildly, but his manner afforded her no opportunity for further appeal; he was a man of the square edge and he was acting according to the code of the Open Places. She put away womanly weakness as best she was able and continued with him on his own ground.

“There is a plot to keep you away from your duty on the drive this season. You know as well as I do what interests furnished the money for such a purpose.”

“And you know about it, do you, because you are one of the detective gang?”

“I have worked for the Vose-Mern agency.”

She could not deny the evidence of that letter which he had shoved deep down into his pocket. He had reminded her of it by whacking his hand against his thigh.

“So that’s what you are!” Again he was losing control of himself.

Men in the crowd snickered. They were perceiving much humor in the situation.

“I can explain later.” She, too, was breaking down under the strain. She whimpered, pleading with him. “After you have brought down the drive I can explain and——”

“Now! It must be now! I can’t bring down any drive till you do explain.”

She did not understand.

But he knew all too bitterly under what a sword of Damocles he was standing. Ridicule was ready to slay him! The Big Laugh was already gurgling deep in the throats of all the folks. The news of his engagement had gone ahead of him to the north country; the Big Laugh would roar along in the wake of that news.

“The truth! It must come out now!” he shouted. “All the truth—the whole truth about yourself!”

“I can’t tell you!” wailed Lida Kennard, turning her back fearsomely on the big house on the ledges.

“You’ve got a mouthful of truth out of me. Can’t you see how it is?” growled Crowley.

“So that’s what you are, is it?” Latisan dwelt on the subject, twisting the handle that Crowley had given him.

“Mr. Latisan, listen to me! I implore you to forget me—what I am! Go to your work.”

“My work has nothing to do with this matter between you and me. So that’s what you are!” he repeated, insistent on his one idea, looking her up and down. “A detective sneak!”

“I am done with the work. I am a human being, at any rate, and you promised me——”

He sliced his hand through the air. “That’s all off! You lied to me. It must have been a lie, seeing what you are. But I believed, and I stood up and took you for mine. The word has gone out. Every man on the Noda will know about it. I had no rights over your life till you met me. But when a woman lies to a man to make him do this or that she is laughing at him behind his back. You have played me for a poor fool in the tall timber. That’s the word that’s starting now.”

“If you have found out how worthless I am,” she sobbed, “you can go on with your work and be a real man.”

He loosed the leash on himself. He mocked her with bitter irony, his face working hideously. “‘Go on with your work!’ Don’t you have any idea what men are up these woods? Who’ll take orders from me after this? They’ll hoot me off the river! I’m done. You have put me down and under!”

More than the spirit of sacrifice was actuating her then. Her impulses were inextricably mingled, but they all tended to one end, to save him from error. His scorn had touched her heart; meeting him on his own plane—on the level of honesty—woman with man, she was conscious of bitter despair because he was leaving her life. She was fighting for her own—for the old man in the big house, for the new love that was springing up out of her sympathy for this champion from whom, without realizing the peril of her procedure, she had filched the weapons of his manhood at the moment when he needed them most.

“The heart has gone out of me! You have taken it out!” he cried.

“I swear before our God that I’ll be straight with you from now on. Won’t it put heart in you if I’m your wife, standing by you through everything?” She took a long breath. Her desperation drove her to the limits of appeal. “I love you! I know it. I must have known it when I urged you on to your duty. I’m willing to say it here before all. Take me, and let’s fight together.”

In her hysterical fear lest she was losing all, she took no thought of her pride; she was making passionate, primitive appeal to the chosen mate.

But she did not understand how absolutely hopeless was the wreck of this man’s fortunes, as Latisan viewed the situation. Ridicule, the taunt that he had been fooled by a girl from the city, was waiting for him all along the river. Echford Flagg would be the first to deny the worth of a man who had received the Big Laugh. No man on the Noda had ever incurred mock to such a degree. And he had vaunted his engagement to her!

She went toward him, her hands outstretched; he had been backing away from her.

“Look out!” he warned. “I never struck a woman!” He spread his big hand. All the fury of his forebears was rioting in him.

He was not swayed by rage, merely; there would have been something petty in ordinary human resentment at that moment. There was another quality that was devilishly and subtly complex in the sudden mania which obsessed him. He had seen woodsmen leaping and shouting in the ecstasy of drunkenness; liquor seemed to affect the men of the woods in that way—to accentuate their sense of wild liberty. Latisan had been obliged to pitch in and quell riots where woodsmen had heaped their clothes and were making a bonfire of the garments they needed for decency’s sake. And a mere liquid had been able to put them into that temper!But this that was sweeping through all his being was liquid fire!

He had never been else than a spectator of what alcohol would do to a man; he had never tasted the stuff.

Here he was, all of a sudden, drunk with something else—he knew that he was drunk—and he let himself go! He leaped up and tossed his arms above his head. By action alone a woodsman expressed his feelings, he told himself, and he was only a woodsman; the hellions of the world were not allowing him to make anything else of himself! The north country was closed to him; his power as a boss was gone. Look at those grinning faces around him!

Then he yelled shrilly. Many who stood around understood what that whoop meant, though it had not been heard for a long time on the Noda. It was “the Latisan lallyloo”! It had echoed among the hills in the old days when John Latisan was down from the river and had grabbed a bottle from the hand of the first bootlegger who offered his wares.

The grandson, then and there, was veritably drunk with the frenzy of despair!

Yanking his arms free, he dragged off his belted jacket and flung it on the ground; on the jacket, with a pile-driver sweep of his arm, he drove down his cap.

“Lie there, drive master!” he shouted.

The down train of the narrow-gauge was dragging out of the station; a succession of shrill whistle toots, several minutes before, had warned prospective passengers.Latisan ran down the middle of the road and leaped aboard the slowly moving train when it crossed the highway. Standing on the platform of the passenger car, he shook his fists at assembled Adonia and yelled again.

Brophy, from the tavern porch, looked hard at the girl and started down the steps, making his way toward the jacket and cap which Latisan had thrown away.

She ran and picked them up and hugged them in her arms with defiant proprietorship.

“How come?” sneered Brophy. “Latest bulletin seemed to be that the engagement was broke!” He was suddenly hostile.

She turned from the landlord and faced Crowley. The operative was triumphant. “It’s understood that I get the credit for this job,” he informed her, sotto voce. His air suggested that he was convinced that the destiny of the Flagg drive had been settled.

All about her were implacable faces. The grins were gone. There was no misunderstanding the sentiments which those men entertained toward a woman who had wrought the undoing of a square man. She presented completely then the pathetic spectacle of a baited, cowering, wild creature at bay. She was bitterly alone among them. Even Crowley of the city was against her. In her agony of loneliness the thought of her kin in the big house on the hill came to her mind. But to her, in spite of her passionate efforts to aid, must be ascribed the defection of Latisan—the breaking of her grandfather’s last prop. She had intensified in woeful degree the fault of her father; she had compassed the ruin of the old man at a time when he was unable to restore his fortunes by his own effort. The doors of the house on the hill were barred by the iron of unforgiveness and by these new fires of her fault, involuntary though that fault was.

Brophy stood before her. “I reckon you ain’t going to be very popular hereabout as a hash-slinger, Miss Whatever-your-name is.” He snapped his fingers and stretched his hand to command the transfer of the jacket and cap. “I’ll take ’em and put ’em in Ward’s room.”

But she clung to what she had retrieved as if she felt that she held a hostage of fortune. Brophy refrained from laying violent hands on the articles, and to save his face and create a diversion he turned on Crowley.

“Let’s see! You have bragged about being a detective! We don’t stand for your kind or tricks in this neck o’ woods.”

There was the menace of growls in the crowd. The mob spirit was stirring. A man said something about a rail and tar and feathers.

“I’ll argue with the boys and try to give you a fair start,” stated the landlord. “But you’d better pack up in a hurry. You can’t wait for to-morrow’s train under my roof. I’ll furnish you a livery hitch to the junction. Take the woman with you.”

It was an ugly crowd; the landlord was obliged to push back men when Crowley followed Lida into the tavern.

Miss Elsham was just inside the door, where she had posted herself as a spectator and listener. “There’s no telling what they’ll do; they’re bound to find out that I’m an operative,” she quavered. “You must take me with you, Buck.”

He had been appointed her guardian and he could not refuse. But he glowered at Lida, white and trembling.

Brophy came in after a struggle at the door; he slammed the portal and bolted it.

“They’re usually pretty genteel up here where wimmen are concerned,” he told Lida, “but they’re laying it all to you. They’ll let you go, Crowley, if you’ll go in a hurry. Are you one of ’em, too?” he bluntly asked Miss Elsham, ready to suspect all strangers.

She nodded. “I’m going with Crowley.”

“Understanding that you give me full credit,” her associate told her, his lips close to her ear.

“I ain’t sure but what I’d better hide you till night,” the landlord informed Lida. “As I said, they’re naturally genteel, but——” He hesitated when he heard the growing grumble of voices.

“I’ve got trouble enough in getting away without taking you on for an extra load,” was Crowley’s rough repudiation of Lida. “You have double-crossed——”

“I’ll accept your opinion as an expert in that line,” she said, lashing her courage back to meet the situation. “I am not asking any favors from Vose-Mern or their operatives. Nor from you,” she informed the landlord.

She settled Ward’s cap and jacket more securely in the clutch of her arms. “Unbar and open the door, if you please, Mr. Brophy.”

He demurred.

“It’s the door of a public inn. You must open it.”

He obeyed, standing ready to repel intruders.

She walked straight out and through the crowd of hostile natives, who parted to allow her to pass; her chin was up and her eyes were level in meeting the gaze of any man who stared at her.

She had made up her mind where she was going, and the thought of that intended destination put some of the spirit of old Echford Flagg in her.

When she was free from the crowd she began to run; instinct of the homing sort impelled her to hasten. She had not settled in her mind what she would say or do when she got there, but there seemed to be no other place in all the world for her right then except the big house on the ledges.