her voice was chill.

"I believe you heard my message."

"Clearly. But if you had known that I had come all the way out from the
city on a very hot morning, merely to do you a favour, I don't think you
would have given it." He surveyed her reproachfully. Then his lips
parted again in a smile. "Won't you give me five minutes, Miss
Wynrod--please."

Judith was no exception to the rule that curiosity is a dominant motive
in human conduct. Besides, she had already succumbed to the curious
stranger's magnetic geniality.

She hesitated. "Well ..." He took it to be acquiescence.

"Thanks very much. Now could I have this five minutes with you--alone?"

Roger frowned at the request, and winked at his sister.

"This is my brother. Anything that concerns me will concern him."

The stranger's demeanour was unruffled.

"I see. And I am very glad. What I have to say does concern your brother
quite as much as it concerns yourself."

"Fire away!" interrupted Roger. Curiosity is by no means a distinctively
feminine weakness.

The occupant of the shabby brown suit removed his almost equally brown
straw hat and laid it on the grass.

"It's hot, isn't it," he smiled. It was difficult to resist that smile.
Judith invited him to be seated. And although she herself remained
standing, he accepted the invitation with alacrity. She marked that
against him, although his next remark appeased her somewhat.

"It's a long walk up from the station," he said, carefully removing the
abundant perspiration from his craggy forehead. "Pretty road, though,"
he added.

Judith was content to let him take his own time. But Roger was more
impatient.

"You have something to say to us?"

"Yes," he admitted, "I have."

"Well...?"

Mr. Good looked from brother to sister. An expression of half-humorous
dismay crossed his face, an expression which both of them caught, but
neither understood. Then he drew a long breath and carefully folded his
handkerchief. One long, lean forefinger shot out suddenly toward Judith,
and the quizzical little smile vanished from his lips.

"You know, Miss Wynrod, of the terrible situation down in the Algoma
mines. You know of the bloodshed, the pitched battles between strikers
and mine-guards. And worst of all,"--With a rapid gesture, contrasting
strongly with the languorous slowness of his movements before, he drew a
folded newspaper from one of his bulging pockets--"You must have read
this morning of the burning