The sky was a wonderful pale-green and the high peaks glowed against it, softly red.  There was a belt where the snow glittered, but lower down it faded to gray and blue.  The pines were nearly black, but rose out of the shadow in sharp-cut spires, and far down in the dusky gorge, from which the roar of the flood and crash of ice ascended, there were gleams of livid foam.  Still there was much he wanted to learn, and it was something of a relief when Mrs. Stephen picked up her sewing and gave her daughter a meaning glance.  To Foster’s surprise, Lawrence interposed.

“If you don’t mind, I’d sooner you didn’t go.”  Then he turned to Foster with a smile.  “It’s obvious that you want to unbosom yourself, Jake, but you can begin.  You needn’t be afraid of mentioning Daly.  Lucy knows.”

Foster remarked the girl’s blush.  Since she knew so much, it was plain that Lawrence had asked her to marry him and she had agreed.  He imagined that Lawrence wanted Mrs. Stephen to hear somebody else’s account of the matter, and although it would have been easier to talk to Lawrence alone, he asked: 

“Did you know the fellow was in Banff a day or two since?”

Lucy Stephen made an abrupt movement, and her mother looked interested.  She was a quiet lady and more reserved than the girl, but Foster thought her intelligent and firm.

“I did not,” said Lawrence.  “As a matter of fact, I’m no longer afraid of the fellow and mean to fight.  He can’t do me much harm—­now.”

The girl’s shy glance at his comrade moved Foster.  She knew what her lover meant and valued his trust; but he could sympathize with Mrs. Stephen, who looked disturbed.  The latter was practical and no doubt saw that Daly might give them trouble.

“You had better begin at the beginning, and then we’ll understand why you came back and how you got on Daly’s trail,” Lawrence resumed with a hint of resignation.

“Very well; but first, why didn’t you write?”

“I wrote twice.  Once to my mother and once to you.”

“We got no letters.  Did you post them?”

“Ah!” said Lawrence, “that was unfortunate.  I gave the first letter to a steward to send ashore from a San Francisco boat.  Walters put the other in the mail.”

“Who is Walters?”

“We’ll come to him later.  Get on with your story.”

Foster told it as clearly as he could, though this took some time, and when he had finished was annoyed by his comrade’s smile.  Lawrence seldom took things seriously enough.

“Jake is a born meddler,” he remarked to the others.  “He can’t resist the temptation to put crooked matters right.”

“It is a useful habit,” said Mrs. Stephen quietly.

“Just so,” Lawrence agreed.  “Still it’s a habit that ought to be carefully controlled and not, so to speak, be indulged out of sentimental impulses.”

Foster felt embarrassed, although he thought he had said no more about Carmen and Alice than was needed to make his narrative clear.