about to proceed up the bay
to the cannery wharf when she came over to the rail and exclaimed in a
low voice:

"Oh, yes. Another thing. I didn't have a chance to look at that
statement you had this morning. If you're not too busy to-night, you
might bring it up to the house."

CHAPTER XV

BUSINESS AND PLEASURE

Alone in his little room in the fish cannery Kenneth Gregory found
himself confronted by a new and unexpected problem. A hurried glance at
his watch only served to aggravate the tense lines which creased his
forehead. It was seven-thirty already. He was due at the Lang residence
at eight. And what was he going to wear?

The seriousness of the situation became painfully apparent as he pawed
over his wardrobe. His pre-war clothes had served nicely to wear about
the cannery. But they were hopelessly out of style. Why hadn't he taken
the time to have had something decent made in Port Angeles instead of
taking the first thing in 'hand-me-downs' which the salesman had
offered? He surveyed the suit ruefully. Then he reflected that his
errand was purely one of business and hastily donned the garments.

A nasty fit, he admitted to himself, as he looked into the mirror. He'd
like to get his hands on the man who talked him into it. He looked at
his shoes. They too caused him a commensurate amount of worry. Built on
lines of comfort they displayed a total disregard of fashion. The
longer he examined his attire the more conscious he became of its
defects. Turning from the glass he walked with disgust from the room.

The moon was shining bright when Gregory reached the Lang cottage.
Pausing on the graveled walk to reef in his vest, he walked up the steps
and fumbled about for the bell.

Dickie welcomed him at the door.

"I hardly knew you in those clothes," she began. "They do make a
difference, don't they?"

Gregory pulled his coat closer about him and agreed that they did. Then
he noticed that the girl had discarded her man's attire and was clothed
in a plain white dress. In the light of the little hallway her hair
gleamed like dull gold.

She led the way into a small living-room upon the floor of which a
number of vari-colored rag rugs were scattered about. By a big sewing
table sat a little woman in black. A light shawl draped her shoulders
and a white cap covered her gray-threaded hair. At their entrance she
laid aside her knitting and smiled.

"This is Mr. Gregory, Aunt Mary," Dickie announced in