“I believe his story is true,” Ruth said, shaking her head.

“And if that’s so, then the boss hasn’t got a clear title to Cliff Island—­eh?” returned the big foreman, smiling at her quizzically.

“That isn’t Mr. Tingley’s fault,” cried Ruth, quickly.

“He’d be the one to suffer, however, if it should be proved that old Pete Tilton had any vested right in the island,” said Preston.  “You can bet Blent is sharp enough to have covered his tracks if he has done anything foxy.  He was never caught yet in any legal tangle.”

“Oh, I hope Mr. Tingley won’t have trouble up here,” declared Mrs. Tingley, quite disturbed.

Ruth felt rather embarrassed.  As much as she was interested in Jerry Sheming, she did not like to think she was stirring up trouble for her school-mate’s father.  Just then the outer door of the inn opened and a man entered, stamping the snow from his boots upon the wire mat.

“S-s-t!” said Preston, his eyes twinkling.  “Here’s Rufus Blent himself.”

It seemed that Mrs. Tingley had never seen the real estate man and she was quite as much interested as Ruth in making his acquaintance.  They both eyed him with growing disapproval as the old man finished freeing his feet of the clinging snow and then charged at Preston from across the big room.

“I say!  I say, you, Preston!” he snarled.  “Have you done what I tol’ you?  Have you got that Jerry Sheming off the island?  He’d never oughter been let to git on there ag’in.  I’ve been away, or I’d heard of it before.  Is he off?”

“Not yet,” replied Preston, smiling secretly.

“I wanter know why not?  I won’t have him snoopin’ around there.  It was understood when I sold Tingley that island that I reserved sartain rights——­”

“This here is Mis’ Tingley,” interposed Preston, turning the old man’s attention to the lady.

He was a brown, wrinkled old man, with sparse pepper-and-salt whiskers and a parrot-like nose.  “Sharper” was written all over his hatchet features; but probably his provincialism and lack of book education had kept him from being a very dangerous villain.

“I wanter know!” exclaimed Rufus.  “So you’re Tingley’s lady?  Wal! do you take charge here?”

“Oh, no,” laughed Mrs. Tingley.  “My husband will be up here Christmas morning.”

“Goin’ to have Preston send that boy back to the mainland?”

“Oh, no, I shall not interfere.  Mr. Tingley will attend to it when he comes.  I think that would be best.”

“Nothin’ of the kind!” cried Blent, his little eyes snapping.  “That boy’s got no business over there—­snooping round.”

“What are you afraid of, Rufus?  What do you think he’ll find?” queried Preston, who was evidently not above aggravating the old fellow.

“Never you mind!  Never you mind!” croaked Blent.  “If you folks won’t discharge him and put him off the island, I’ll do it, myself.”