the chief reason for selling out his Roaring Lake interests to Monohan.  He didn’t want to be involved in whatever Monohan contemplated doing.  He has a wholesome respect for your husband’s rather volcanic ability.  Monohan has, too.  But he has always hated Jack Fyfe.  To my knowledge for three years,—­prior to pulling you out of the water that time,—­he never spoke of Jack Fyfe without a sneer.  He hates any one who beats him at anything.  That ruction on the Tyee is a sample.  He’ll spend money, risk lives, all but his own, do anything to satisfy a grudge.  That’s one of the things that worries me.  Charlie will be into anything that Fyfe is, for Fyfe’s his friend.  I admire the spirit of the thing, but I don’t want our little applecart upset in the sort of struggle Fyfe and Monohan may stage.  I don’t even know what form it will ultimately take, except that from certain indications he’ll try to make Fyfe spend money faster than he can make it, perhaps in litigation over timber, over anything that offers, by making trouble in his camps, harassing him at every turn.  He can, you know.  He has immense resources.  Oh, well, I’m satisfied, Stella, that you’re a much wiser girl than I thought when I knew you’d left Jack Fyfe.  I’m quite sure now you aren’t the sort of woman Monohan could wind around his little finger.  But I’m sure he’ll try.  You’ll see, and remember what I tell you.  There, I think I’d better run along.  You’re not angry, are you, Stella?”

“You mean well enough, I suppose,” Stella answered.  “But as a matter of fact, you’ve made me feel rather nasty, Linda.  I don’t want to talk or even think of these things.  The best thing you and Charlie and Jack Fyfe could do is to forget such a discontented pendulum as I ever existed.”

“Oh, bosh!” Linda exclaimed, as she drew on her gloves.  “That’s sheer nonsense.  You’re going to be my big sister in three months.  Things will work out.  If you felt you had to take this step for your own good, no one can blame you.  It needn’t make any difference in our friendship.”

On the threshold she turned on her heel.  “Don’t forget what I’ve said,” she repeated.  “Don’t trust Monohan.  Not an inch.”

Stella flung herself angrily into a chair when the door closed on Linda Abbey.  Her eyes snapped.  She resented being warned and cautioned, as if she were some moral weakling who could not be trusted to make the most obvious distinctions.  Particularly did she resent having Monohan flung in her teeth, when she was in a way to forget him, to thrust the strange charm of the man forever out of her thoughts.  Why, she asked bitterly, couldn’t other people do as Jack Fyfe had done:  cut the Gordian knot at one stroke and let it rest at that?

So Monohan was in Seattle?  Would he try to see her?