“Nan!  Nan!  Where are you?” he called.  “It is I—­Donald.  Answer me, Nan.  I know you haven’t gone away.  You wouldn’t!  Please answer me, Nan!”

But the only sound he heard was the labored pumping of his own heart and the swish of the wavelets against the timbered buttress of the Sawdust Pile.  The conviction slowly came to his torpid brain that he was seeking admittance to a deserted house, and he leaned against the door and fought for control of himself.  Presently, like a stricken animal, he went slowly and uncertainly away in the direction whence he had come.

* * * * *

Andrew Daney had put out the cat and wound the clock and was about to ascend to his chamber (now, alas, reoccupied by Mrs. Daney, upon whom the news of Nan’s departure had descended like a gentle rainfall over a hitherto arid district) when he heard slow footsteps on his front veranda.  Upon going to the door and peering out, he was amazed to see Donald McKaye standing just outside.

“Well, bless my soul!” Daney declared.  “So it’s you Donald.  Come in, lad; come in.”

Donald shook his head.

“No, I’ve only come to stay a minute, Mr. Daney.  Thank you, sir.  I—­I notice you’re running a light track from the drying-yard down to the Sawdust Pile.  Stumbled over it in the dark a few minutes ago, and I—­” He essayed a ghastly smile, for he desired to remove the sting from the gentle rebuke he purposed giving the general manger—­“couldn’t seem to remember having ordered that track—­or—­suggesting that it be laid.”

“Quite so, Donald; quite so,” Daney answered.  “I did it on my own initiative.  Nan Brent has abandoned the Sawdust Pile—­moved away from Port Agnew, you know; so I decided to extend the drying-yard, and squat on the Sawdust Pile before some undesirable took possession.”

“Hm-m-m!  I see.  Well, suppose Nan takes a notion to return to Port Agnew, Mr. Daney.  She’ll find our drying-yard something of a nuisance, will she not?”

“Oh, but she’s not coming back,” Daney assured him, with all the confidence of one free from the slightest doubt on the subject.

“She might.  I could see rather dimly into the kitchen and it appears Miss Brent left her little home furnished.”

“Yes, she did, Donald.  I believe she just turned the key in the lock and went away.”

“Know where she went, Mr. Daney?”

“No.  She didn’t even leave a forwarding address for her mail.”

The young laird of Tyee lurched up to Mr. Daney and laid a heavy hand on the older man’s shoulder.

“How do you know that?” he demanded, and there was a growl in his voice.  “Has Mrs. Daney been asking the postmaster?”

Mr. Daney saw that, for some inexplicable reason, he was in for a bad five minutes or more.  His youthful superior’s face was white and beaded with perspiration.  Daney had a suspicion that Donald had had a drink or two.