They talked desultorily as the launch thrashed along.  Alden’s profession took him to all corners of the earth.  That was why the winter of Fyfe’s honeymoon had not made them acquainted.  Alden and his wife were then in South America.  This visit was to fill in the time before the departure of a trans-Pacific liner which would land the Aldens at Manila.

Presently the Abbey-Monohan camp and bungalow lay abeam.  Stella told Mrs. Alden something of the place.

“That reminds me,” Mrs. Alden turned to her brother.  “I was quite sure I saw Walter Monohan board a train while we were waiting for the hotel car in Hopyard.  I heard that he was in timber out here.  Is he this Monohan?”

Fyfe nodded.

“How odd,” she remarked, “that you should be in the same region.  Do you still maintain the ancient feud?”

Fyfe shot her a queer look.

“We’ve grown up, Dolly,” he said drily.  Then:  “Do you expect to get back to God’s country short of a year, Alden?”

That was all.  Neither of them reverted to the subject again.  But Stella pondered.  An ancient feud?  She had not known of that.  Neither man had ever dropped a hint.

For the second incident, Paul Abbey dropped in to dinner a few days later and divulged a bit of news.

“There’s been a shake-up in our combination,” he remarked casually to Fyfe.  “Monohan and dad have split over a question of business policy.  Walter’s taking over all our interests on Roaring Lake.  He appears to be going to peel off his coat and become personally active in the logging industry.  Funny streak for Monohan to take, isn’t it?  He never seemed to care a hoot about the working end of the business, so long as it produced dividends.”

Lastly, Charlie Benton came over to eat a farewell dinner with the Aldens the night before they left.  He followed Stella into the nursery when she went to tuck Jack Junior in his crib.

“Say, Stella” he began, “I have just had a letter from old man Lander; you remember he was dad’s legal factotum and executor.”

“Of course,” she returned.

“Well, do you recall—­you were there when the estate was wound up, and I was not—­any mention of some worthless oil stock?  Some California wildcat stuff the governor got bit on?  It was found among his effects.”

“I seem to recall something of the sort,” she answered.  “But I don’t remember positively.  What about it?”

“Lander writes me that there is a prospect of it being salable.  The company is reviving.  And he finds himself without legal authority to do business, although the stock certificates are still in his hands.  He suggests that we give him a power of attorney to sell this stuff.  He’s an awfully conservative old chap, so there must be a reasonable prospect of some cash, or he wouldn’t bother.  My hunch is to give him a power of attorney and let him use his own judgment.”

“How much is it worth?” she asked.