“I’m glad you’re satisfied,” was Holcomb’s simple reply.

The housemaid appeared with a silver tray.

“Ah, there’s our toddy!” exclaimed Thayor.  “Thank you, Mary; you may put it between us.  Bring us that little low table in the corner.”  As the girl busied herself in arranging the table Thayor paused to look about him.

The square room, with its low, heavily beamed ceiling and walls of birch, stained to a rich sienna, glistening in fresh spar varnish; the fire licking up the throat of the wide chimney-piece built of rough boulders from the bed of Big Shanty; the floor laid with rare rugs; the easy chairs and shaded lights—­all gave to this living room a charm that none in the house of marble possessed.  This artistic result was due to the personal supervision and good taste of the same architect who had designed the house of marble.  Fortunately Alice Thayor had taken no interest in it.

“Excellent!” exclaimed Thayor, as he poured the hot water into Billy’s temperate portion of Scotch.  “The bedrooms are a delight.  I’m glad to see the gun-room paved in brick—­muddy boots cannot do any harm there; it will wash as clean as a stable.”

“It has been the expense I have worried over,” ventured Holcomb, as the two settled back in their chair.  “The vouchers I was obliged to send you last month, I mean—­wasn’t the plumber’s bill putting the screws on a little tight?”

“Nonsense!” returned Thayor, smiling, “you don’t seem to realize, Billy, that had it not been for your honesty and good will and the faithful help of our friends.  Skinner and Holt, Big Shanty would have cost me twice as much; and if it had”—­he paused and gazed into the fire, while the corners of his mouth twitched from side to side as if forming his words, a habit of his when giving a decision—­“yes, if it had cost three times the amount, I should be more than satisfied.”

The colour crept up under Billy’s bronzed cheek.

“It makes me feel good—­to hear you say this to me,” he said.  “It’s been a long job, but I drove things along the best I could.  When things got stuck in the mud there was nothing to do but jump in and pull them out and get them started and moving, and I want you to know that Freme—­since his sweetheart made him sober—­and old man Hite did all they could.  I could never have done it without them.”

“I believe you, Billy,” declared Thayor briskly.  “You have done what I knew you would.  Ah, yes—­you’re right about those two good fellows, Holt and Skinner.  Their greeting to me this afternoon touched me deeply.  Why, even the old dog remembered me.”

“Remembered you?  Of course he did.  Hite says the old dog has never got over your killing that buck.”

“And the old dog, I suppose, still talks to him?” laughed Thayor.

“I’ve never known Hite to lie,” replied Holcomb with a grin.

“And now tell me about poor Dinsmore.  I have watched the papers but I have seen nothing of his arrest and so I suppose he is safe in Canada, or is he still about here?”