Four days had passed, four miserable days, relieved only by a few pleasant hours with Dorothy and the enjoyment he always found in watching her keen delight in every entertainment.  He went everywhere, where he felt sure of seeing her, and could he have removed Teddy Mahr from the obviously reserved place at Dorothy’s side, he could have enjoyed those moments without the undercurrent of his troubled fears.  That Mahr was rebelliously angry at the situation was evident.  Gard had seen the look in his eyes on more than one occasion, and it boded evil to someone.  What had he meant when he spoke of his son’s probable absence of a year or more “to study the lumber business”?  Gard approached the young man and found him quite innocent of any such plan.

“Oh, yes,” he had answered, “father’s keen on my being what he calls practical, but,” and he had smiled frankly at his questioner, “I wouldn’t leave now—­not for the proud possession of every tree, flat or standing, this side of the Pacific.”

Dorothy, when questioned, blushed and smiled and evaded, assuring Gard that of all the men she had met that season he alone came up to her ideal, and employed every artifice a woman uses between the ages of nine and ninety, when she does not want to give an answer that answers.  The very character of her replies, however, convinced Gard that there was more than a passing interest in her preference.  There was something sweetly ingenuous in her evasions, a softness in her violet eyes at the mention of Teddy’s prosaic name that was not to be misunderstood.  Gard sighed.  Still the sense of impending danger oppressed him.  He found himself neglectful of his many and vital interests.  He took himself severely in hand, and set himself to unrelenting work, fixing his attention on the matters in hand as if he would drive a nail through them.  Heavy circles appeared under his eyes, and the lines from nose to chin sharpened perceptibly.  More than ever he looked the eagle, stern and remote, capable of daring the very sun in high ambitious flight, or of sudden and death-dealing descent; but deep in his heart fear had entered.

* * * * *

VI

“Hello!  Oh, good morning.  Is that you, Teddy?  Yes, you did wake me up—­but I’m very glad.  Half past ten?—­good gracious!—­you never telephone me before that?—­Oh, what a whopper!  You called me at half past eight—­day before yesterday—­Why, of course—­I know that—­but you did just the same.  Why, yes, I’d love to.  What time to-morrow?  That will be jolly; but do have the wind-shield—­I hate to be blown out of the car—­no, it isn’t becoming—­You’re a goose!—­besides, my hair tickles my nose.  No, I haven’t had a word from mother, and I don’t understand it at all.  She might have sent me a wireless.  Yes, I’m awfully lonely—­who wouldn’t miss her?—­Well, now, you don’t have a chance to miss me much—­Oh, really!—­I’m dreadfully sorry for you!—­poor old dear!  Well, I can’t, positively, to-day—­to-morrow, at three; and I’ll be ready—­yes, really ready.  Good-by.”