In the luxuriously appointed smoking-room of the hotel Clay leaned
forward in the deep leather chair into which he had dropped and looked
keenly at Osborne.
"Tell me how you are interested in this fellow Farquhar," he demanded.
"I don't know that I am much interested," Osborne replied. "He was of
some service to us during our voyage from Japan, and seemed a smart
young fellow. It merely struck me that I might give him a lift up in
return for one or two small favors."
"Let him drop! Didn't it strike you that your daughter might have her
own views about him? The man's good-looking."
Osborne flung up his head, and his eyes narrowed.
"I can't discuss--"
"It has to be discussed," Clay interrupted. "You can't have that man at
your house: he's one of the fellows who were working at the wreck."
"Ah! That makes a difference, of course. I suppose you have been on
their trail, but you have told me nothing about it yet."
"I had a suspicion that you didn't want to know. You're a fastidious
fellow, you know, and I suspected that you'd rather leave a mean job of
that kind to me."
"You're right," Osborne admitted. "I'm sure you would handle it better
than I could; but I'm curious to hear what you've done."
"I've gone as far as seems advisable. Had the fellows fired from several
jobs and made it difficult for them to get another; but it wouldn't pay
to have my agents guess what I'm after." Clay laughed. "Farquhar and his
partners are either bolder or smarter than I thought; I found them
taking my own money at the Clanch Mill."
"You meant to break them?"
"Sure! A man without money is pretty harmless; but wages are high here,
and if they'd been left alone, they might have saved enough to give them
a start. Now I don't imagine the poor devils have ten dollars between
them."
"What's your plan?"
"I don't know yet. I thought of letting them find out the weakness of
their position and then trying to buy them off; but if I'm not very
careful that might give them a hold on me."
Osborne looked thoughtful.
"I wonder whether the insurance people would consider an offer for the
wreck? I wouldn't mind putting up my share of the money."
"It wouldn't work," Clay said firmly. "They'd smell a rat. I suppose you
felt you'd like to give them their money back."
"I have felt something of the kind."
"Then why did you take the money in the first instance?"
"You ought to know. I had about two hundred dollars which you had paid
me then, and I wanted to give my girl a fair start in life."
"And now she'd be the first to feel ashamed of you if she knew."
Osborne winced.
"What's the good of digging up the bones of a skeleton that is better
buried!" he said impatiently. "The thing to consider is the wreck. If we
could buy it we could blow it up."
"We can blow it up, anyway. That is, if we can get there before the
Farquhar crowd. We have steam against their sail, and I've made it
difficult for them to fit out their boat. Unless I find I can come to
terms with the fellows, I'll get off in the yacht as soon as the ice
breaks up."
"Your crew may talk."
"They won't have much to talk about; I'll see to that. Now, I don't know
what claim insurers have on a vessel they've paid for and abandoned for
a number of years, but I guess there's nothing to prevent our trying to
recover her cargo, so long as we account for what we get. It's known
that the yacht has been cruising in the North, and what more natural
than that we should discover that a gale or a change of current had
washed the wreck into shallow water after the salvage expedition gave
her up? If there had been anything wrong, we'd have made some move
earlier. Very well; knowing more about the vessel and her freight than
anybody else, we try what we can do. If we fail, like the salvage
people, nobody can blame us."
"You'd run some risk, for all that," Osborne said thoughtfully.
"I can't deny it. If Farquhar and his friends were business men, I'd
feel uneasy. He has cards in his hand that would beat us; but he doesn't
know how many trumps he holds. If he did know, we'd have heard from him
or the underwriters before this."
"It seems probable," Osborne agreed. "All the same, I wish the winter
was over and you could get off. It will be a relief to know that she is
destroyed."
"You'll have to wait; but there won't be much of her left after we get
to work with the giant-powder," Clay promised cheerfully.
They talked over the matter until it got late; and the next morning the
party broke up, the Osbornes returning home and Aynsley going back to
his mill. Clay, however, stayed in Vancouver and visited a doctor who
was beginning to make his mark. There were medical men in Seattle who
would have been glad to attend to him, but he preferred the Canadian
city, where he was not so well known. He had been troubled rather often
of late by sensations that puzzled him, and had decided that if he had
any serious weakness it would be better to keep it to himself. Hitherto
he had been noted for his mental and physical force, and recognized as a
daring, unscrupulous fighter whom it was wise to conciliate, and it
might prove damaging if rumors that he was not all he seemed got about.
His work was not finished and his ambitions were only half realized.
Aynsley had his mother's graces, for Clay's wife had been a woman of
some refinement who had yielded to the fascination the handsome
adventurer once exercised. The boy must have wealth enough to make him a
prominent figure on the Pacific Slope. Clay knew his own limitations,
and was content that his son should attain a social position he could
not enjoy. This was one reason why he had been more troubled about
Farquhar's salvage operations than he cared to admit. His personal
reputation was, as he very well knew, not of the best, but his business
exploits, so far as they were known to the public, were, after all,
regarded with a certain toleration and would be forgotten. The wreck,
however, was a more serious matter, and might have a damaging effect on
his son's career if the truth concerning it came out. This must be
avoided at any cost. Moreover, with his business increasing, he would
need all his faculties during the next few years, and the mysterious
weakness he suffered from now and then dulled his brain. In consequence,
he was prudently but rather unwillingly going to see a doctor.
The man examined him with a careful interest which Clay thought ominous,
and after questioning him about his symptoms stood silent a few moments.
"You have lived pretty hard," he commented.
"I have," said Clay, "but perhaps not in the way that's generally
meant."
The doctor nodded as he studied him. Clay's face showed traces of
indulgence, but these were not marked. The man was obviously not in the
habit of exercising an ascetic control over his appetites, but he looked
too hard and virile to be a confirmed sensualist. Yet, to a practised
eye, he showed signs of wear.
"I mean that you haven't been careful of yourself."
"I hadn't much chance of doing so until comparatively recent years,"
Clay replied with a grim smile. "In my younger days, I suffered heat and
thirst in the Southwest; afterwards I marched on half-rations, carrying
a heavy pack, in the Alaskan snow; and I dare say I got into the habit
of putting my object first."
"Before what are generally considered the necessities of life--food and
rest and sleep?"
"Something of the kind."
"You work pretty hard now?"
"I begin when I get up; as a rule, it's eleven o'clock at night when I
finish. That's the advantage of living in a city hotel. You can meet the
people you deal with after office hours."
"It's a doubtful advantage," said the doctor. "You'll have to change all
that. Have you no relaxations or amusements?"
"I haven't time for them; my business needs too much attention. It's
because I find it tries me now and then that I've come here to learn
what's wrong."
The doctor told him he had a serious derangement of the heart which
might have been inherited, but had been developed by his having taxed
his strength too severely.
Clay listened with a hardening face.
"What's the cure?" he asked.
"There is none," said the doctor quietly. "A general slackening of
tension will help. You must take life easier, shorten your working
hours, avoid excitement and mental concentration, and take a holiday
when you can. I recommend a three months' change with complete rest, but
there will always be some risk of a seizure. Your aim must be to make it
as small a risk as possible."
"And if I go on as I've been doing?"
The doctor gave him a keen glance. He was a judge of character, and saw
this was a determined, fearless man.
"You may live three or four years, though I'm doubtful. On the other
hand, the first sharp attack you provoke may finish you."
Clay showed no sign of dismay. He looked thoughtful rather than
startled, for something had occurred to him.
"Would you recommend a voyage to a cold, bracing climate, say in the
spring?"
"I'd urge it now. The sooner the better."
"I can't go yet. Perhaps in a month or two. In the meanwhile I suppose
you'll give me a prescription?"
The doctor went to his desk and wrote on two slips of paper which he
handed to Clay. He had told him plainly what to expect, and could do no
more.
"The first medicine is for regular use as directed; but you must be
careful about the other," he cautioned. "When you feel the faintness you
described, take the number of drops mentioned, but on no account exceed
it. The dispenser will mark the bottle."
Clay thanked him and lighted a strong cigar as he went out, then
remembered that he had been warned against excessive smoking, and
hesitated, but the next moment he put the cigar back in his mouth. If
the doctor's opinions were correct, this small indulgence would not
matter much. With good luck, he could bring all his schemes to fruition
in the next year or two; he had no intention of dropping them. He had
been warned, but he had taken risks all his life, and he had too much on
hand to be prudent now. Still, it would do no harm to have the
prescriptions made up. He looked around for a quiet drugstore. Nobody
must suspect that his career was liable to come to a sudden termination.