She passed on, and Frederic’s glance followed her, puzzled, but with a blended respect and admiration.  When she went out with Elizabeth and the lieutenant, he called his men to convey him to the yacht.  Marcia walked beside him.  Night had fallen, and the Aquila blazed like a fire ship.  Her lamps sifted the shadows and threw long, wavering flames on the tide.  Aft, where the table was spread, for the convenience of the host, who could not hazard the companionway, a string of electric lights illumined the deck.  Japanese screens, a dropped awning or two, tempered the breeze, and the array of silver and flowers, and long-stemmed glasses, promised more than the informal little dinner to which Mrs. Feversham had referred.

She stood looking the table critically over, while the sailors settled the invalid’s chair.  While the rest of the party loitered in the bow, she turned to brother.  “Has it occurred to you,” she asked, “that Beatriz may be interested in some other man?”

“No,” answered Frederic, startled.  “No.  Hadn’t thought of that—­unless—­ it’s Foster.”

“I don’t know; he seems the most possible, if there’s any one.  She says she does not care to marry again.  In any case, it is advisable to keep him in Alaska.  You might send him on from the Iditarod to look over the Aurora mine.”  And she added slowly:  “Beatriz Weatherbee, backed by the Morganstein money, will be able to carry the social end of the family anywhere; but Beatriz Weatherbee, holding a half interest in one of the best-paying placers in Alaska in her own right—­is a wife worth straining a point for.”

Frederic’s round eyes widened; his face took an expression of childlike goodness; it was the mask with which he habitually covered his avarice.  Then he said:  “I understood Hollis Tisdale had exclusive, brass-bound, double-rivited possession of the Aurora.”

“Hush,” cautioned Marcia, “they are coming.”  And she added, in a still lower tone:  “There is a loose rivet, but contrive to marry her before she knows.”

That dinner covered the homeward cruise, and from the wharf Tisdale went directly to his rooms.  There he telephoned the Rainier-Grand hotel.  “Give me John Banks, please,” he said.  “Yes, I mean Lucky Banks of Alaska.”  And, after an interval, “Hello, Banks!  This is Tisdale talking.  I want you to come up to my rooms.  Yes, to-night.  I am starting east in the morning.  Thank you.  Good-by.”

He put up the receiver and brought Weatherbee’s box from the safe to the table under the hanging lamp.  Seating himself, he took out the plan of the project and spread it before him.  He had not closed the lid, and presently his eyes fell on David’s watch.  He lifted it and, hesitating to open it, sat trying to recall that picture in the lower case.  He wondered how, once having seen it, even in firelight and starshine, he could have forgotten it.  The face would be younger of course, hardly more than a