“Ah, yes,” he said.  “Lot 2027 situated on the south slope of the Toba Valley.  Purchased for your account July, 1912.  Sale ordered October, 1914.  We had some correspondence about that early in 1915, while you were in London.  Do you recall it, Mr. Hollister?”

“Yes.  You wrote that the timber market was dead, that any sale possible must be at a considerable sacrifice.  Afterward, when I got to the front, I had no time to think about things like that.  But I remember writing you to sell, even at a sacrifice.”

“Yes, yes.  Quite so,” Mr. Lewis agreed.  “I recall the whole matter very clearly.  Conditions at that time were very bad, you know.  It was impossible to find a purchaser on short notice.  Early in 1917 there was a chance to sell, at a considerably reduced figure.  But I couldn’t get in touch with you.  You didn’t answer our cable.  I couldn’t take the responsibility of a sacrifice sale.”

Hollister nodded.  In 1917 he was a nameless convalescent in a German hospital; officially he was dead.  Months before that such things as distant property rights had ceased to be of any moment.  He had forgotten this holding of timber in British Columbia.  He was too full of bitter personal misery to trouble about money.

“Failing to reach you we waited until we should hear from you—­or from your estate.”  Mr. Lewis cleared his throat as if it embarrassed him to mention that contingency.  “In war—­there was that possibility, you understand.  We did not feel justified; so much time had elapsed.  There was risk to us in acting without verifying our instructions.”

“So this property is still to be marketed.  The carrying charges, as I remember, were small.  I presume you carried them.”

“Oh, assuredly,” Mr. Lewis asserted.  “We protected your interests to the very best of our ability.”

“Well, find me a buyer for that limit as soon as you can,” Hollister said abruptly.  “I want to turn it into cash.”

“We shall set about this at once,” Mr. Lewis said.  “It may take a little time—­conditions, as a result of the armistice, are again somewhat unsettled in the logging industry.  Airplane spruce production is dead—­dead as a salt mackerel—­and fir and cedar slumped with it.  However we shall do our best.  Have you a price in mind, Mr. Hollister, for a quick sale?”

“I paid ten thousand for it.  On the strength of your advice as a specialist in timber investments,” he added with a touch of malice.  He had taken a dislike to Mr. Lewis.  He had not been so critical of either men or motives in the old days.  He had remembered Lewis as a good sort.  Now he disliked the man, distrusted him.  He was too smooth, too sleek.  “I’ll discount that twenty percent, for a cash sale.”

Mr. Lewis made a memorandum.

“Very good,” said he, raising his head with an inquiring air, as if to say “If that is all——­”

“If you will kindly identify me at a bank,”—­Hollister rose from his chair, “I shall cease to trouble you.  I have a draft on the Bank of B.N.A.  I do not know any one in Vancouver.”