“Anything wrong?” He shot a quick glance at her.  Then casually:  “Not that I know of.”

The bobbing lantern came up the path through the lawn.  Footsteps crunched on the gravel.

“I’ll go see what he wants,” Fyfe remarked, “Calked boots won’t be good for the porch floor.”

She followed him.

“Stay in.  It’s cold.”  He stopped in the doorway.

“No.  I’m coming,” she persisted.

They met the lantern bearer at the foot of the steps.

“Well, Thorsen?” Fyfe shot at him.  There was an unusual note of sharpness in his voice, an irritated expectation.

Stella saw that it was the skipper of the Panther, a big and burly Dane.  He raised the lantern a little.  The dim light on his face showed it bruised and swollen.  Fyfe grunted.

“Our boom is hung up,” he said plaintively.  “They’ve blocked the river.  I got licked for arguin’ the point.”

“How’s it blocked?” Fyfe asked.

“Two swifters uh logs strung across the channel.  They’re drivin’ piles in front.  An’ three donkeys buntin’ logs in behind.”

“Swift work.  There wasn’t a sign of a move when I left this morning,” Fyfe commented drily.  “Well, take the Panther around to the inner landing.  I’ll be there.”

“What’s struck that feller Monohan?” the Dane sputtered angrily.  “Has he got any license to close the Tyee?  He says he has—­an’ backs his argument strong, believe me.  Maybe you can handle him.  I couldn’t.  Next time I’ll have a cant-hook handy.  By jingo, you gimme my pick uh Lefty’s crew, Jack, an’ I’ll bring that cedar out.”

“Take the Panther ’round,” Fyfe replied.  “We’ll see.”

Thorsen turned back down the slope.  In a minute the thrum of the boat’s exhaust arose as she got under way.

“Come on in.  You’ll get cold standing here,” Fyfe said to Stella.

She followed him back into the living room.  He sat on the arm of a big leather chair, rolling the dead cigar thoughtfully between his lips, little creases gathering between his eyes.

“I’m going up the lake,” he said at last, getting up abruptly.

“What’s the matter, Jack?” she asked.  “Why, has trouble started up there?”

“Part of the logging game,” he answered indifferently.  “Don’t amount to much.”

“But Thorsen has been fighting.  His face was terrible.  And I’ve heard you say he was one of the most peaceable men alive.  Is it—­is Monohan—­”

“We won’t discuss Monohan,” Fyfe said curtly.  “Anyway, there’s no danger of him getting hurt.”

He went into his den and came out with hat and coat on.  At the door he paused a moment.

“Don’t worry,” he said kindly.  “Nothing’s going to happen.”