fought a winning fight, and he is right. The
mulatto died in Darrow this morning. One of the Greeks has a smashed
shoulder, and the other a broken arm and four broken ribs. How they
ever got home to Darrow is a mystery."

"The third Greek must have waited near the river-mouth with a boat,
Andrew. Have you any idea where Donald spent the evening?"

"Yes, sir; but he's free, white, and twenty-one, and he's my superior.
I prefer not to discuss his movements."

"Andrew, I command you to."

"I refuse to be commanded, sir."

"That's all I wanted to know. He visited the Brents, and you know it."
He saw by the flush on Daney's old face that he had hit the mark.
"Well, I'm obliged to you, Andrew. You've done your full duty; so
we'll not discuss the matter further. The situation will develop in
time, and, meanwhile, I'll not spy on my boy. I wonder if that Darrow
gang will talk."

"I imagine not, sir--that is, if Dirty Dan keeps his own counsel. They
will fear prosecution if Dan dies; so they will be silent awaiting the
outcome of his injuries. If he lives, they will still remain silent,
awaiting his next move. Dan will probably admit having been jumped in
the dark by three unknown men and that he defended himself vigorously;
he can fail to identify the Greeks, and the Greeks cannot do less
than fail to identify Dirty Dan, who can plead self-defense if the
coroner's jury delves too deeply into the mulatto's death. I imagine
they will not. At any rate, it's up to Dan whether Donald figures in
the case or not, and Dan will die before he'll betray the confidence."

"That's comforting," The Laird replied. "Will you be good enough to
drive me home to The Dreamerie, Andrew?"

At The Dreamerie, old Hector discovered that his son had left the
house early in the afternoon, saying he would not be home for dinner.
So The Laird sat him down and smoked and gazed out across the Bight of
Tyee until sunset, when, a vague curiosity possessing him, he looked
down to the Sawdust Pile and observed that the flag still flew from
the cupola. The night shadows gathered, but still the flag did not
come down; and presently round The Laird's grim mouth a little
prescient smile appeared, with something of pain in it.

"Dining out at Brent's," he soliloquized, "and they're so taken up
with each other they've forgotten the flag. I do not remember that the
Brent girl ever forgot it before. She loves him."

XV

Following his parting with