Ten minutes later, on his way to the Shack, he was discussing with himself the modus operandi of that “hunch.”  It had come to him in an instant, a flash of inspiration.  That afternoon he would see Miriam Kirkstone and question her about Peter.  Then he would return to McDowell, lay stress on the importance of the brother, tell him that he had a clew which he wanted to follow, and suggest finally a swift trip to British Columbia.  He would take Mary Josephine, lie low until his term of service expired, and then report by letter to McDowell that he had failed and that he had made up his mind not to reenlist but to try his fortunes with Mary Josephine in Australia.  Before McDowell received that letter, they could be on their way into the mountains.  The “hunch” offered an opportunity for a clean getaway, and in his jubilation Miriam Kirkstone and her affairs were important only as a means to an end.  He was John Keith now, fighting for John Keith’s life—­and Derwent Conniston’s sister.

Mary Josephine herself put the first shot into the fabric of his plans.  She must have been watching for him, for when halfway up the slope he saw her coming to meet him.  She scolded him for being away from her, as he had expected her to do.  Then she pulled his arm about her slim little waist and held the hand thus engaged in both her own as they walked up the winding path.  He noticed the little wrinkles in her adorable forehead.

“Derry, is it the right thing for young ladies to call on their gentlemen friends over here?” she asked suddenly.

“Why—­er—­that depends, Mary Josephine.  You mean—­”

“Yes, I do, Derwent Conniston!  She’s pretty, and I don’t blame you, but I can’t help feeling that I don’t like it!”

His arm tightened about her until she gasped.  The fragile softness of her waist was a joy to him.

“Derry!” she remonstrated.  “If you do that again, I’ll break!”

“I couldn’t help it,” he pleaded.  “I couldn’t, dear.  The way you said it just made my arm close up tight.  I’m glad you didn’t like it.  I can love only one at a time, and I’m loving you, and I’m going on loving you all my life.”

“I wasn’t jealous,” she protested, blushing.  “But she called twice on the telephone and then came up.  And she’s pretty.”

“I suppose you mean Miss Kirkstone?”

“Yes.  She was frightfully anxious to see you, Derry.”

“And what did you think of her, dear?”

She cast a swift look up into his face.

“Why, I like her.  She’s sweet and pretty, and I fell in love with her hair.  But something was troubling her this morning.  I’m quite sure of it, though she tried to keep it back.”

“She was nervous, you mean, and pale, with sometimes a frightened look in her eyes.  Was that it?”

“You seem to know, Derry.  I think it was all that.”

He nodded.  He saw his horizon aglow with the smile of fortune.  Everything was coming propitiously for him, even this unexpected visit of Miriam Kirkstone.  He did not trouble himself to speculate as to the object of her visit, for he was grappling now with his own opportunity, his chance to get away, to win out for himself in one last master-stroke, and his mind was concentrated in that direction.  The time was ripe to tell these things to Mary Josephine.  She must be prepared.