erved a
frown on the young laird's face as he read Nan Brent's letter.
Immediately he took refuge in his private office, to which he was
followed almost immediately by Donald.

"That's your handwriting, Mr. Daney," he said, thrusting the large
envelop under Daney's nose. "Another letter in a smaller envelop was
enclosed by you in this large one. You knew, of course, who wrote it."

"Miss Brent brought it personally."

Donald started slightly. He was amazed.

"I take it," he continued, after a slight pause, "that it was entirely
your idea to conceal from the office force the fact that Miss Brent
had written me this letter."

"It was, Don."

"I am at a loss to know why you took such a precaution." Donald's eyes
met Daney's in frank suspicion; the latter thought that he detected
some slight anger in the younger man's bearing.

"I can enlighten you, Don. Miss Brent was at some pains to conceal the
fact that she had written you a letter; she brought it to me to be
handed to you, rather than run the risk of discovery by dropping it in
the post-office for special delivery. Some of the girls in our office
went to school with Nan Brent and might recognize her handwriting if
they saw the envelop. I saw Hetty Fairchaild looking over your letters
rather interestedly the other day, when she was sorting the mail and
putting it in the boxes."

"The entire procedure appears to me to be peculiar and wholly
unnecessary. However, I'm obliged to you, Mr. Daney, for acceding so
thoroughly to Nan's apparent wishes." He frowned as he tore the
envelop into shreds and dropped them in Dahey's waste-basket. "I'm
afraid some young women around this plant are going to lose their jobs
unless they learn to restrain their curiosity and their tongues," he
added.

"I thought I was still general manager," Daney reminded him gently,
"Hiring and firing have always been my peculiar prerogatives."

"Forgive me, Mr. Daney. They shall continue to be." The young Laird
grinned at the rebuke; Daney smiled back at him, and the somewhat
charged atmosphere cleared instantly.

"By the way, Donald, your father is in town. He's going up to Seattle
to-night on the seven-ten train. Your mother and the girls left
earlier in the week. He's dining at the hotel and wishes you to join
him there. He figured that, by the time you could reach The Dreamerie,
shave, bathe, and dress, it would be too late to have dinner with him
there and still allow him time to catc