oard, the frown
on his face deepening.

"I hope the plans meet your approval, sir," said the young man, very
respectfully. "I showed them from day to day, as I progressed, to Miss
Jessie Bain, and she seemed very much interested in them."

Those words were fatal to the young man's cause. With an angry gesture,
Varrick threw the drawings down upon the table.

"Your plans do not please me at all," he returned. "Stop right where you
are. Return to your firm at once and tell them to send me another man,
an older man, one with more experience--one who can spend more time at
his business and less time in chattering. Your sketches are miserably
drawn!"

Frank Moray had risen to his feet, his face white as death.

"Mr. Varrick," he cried hoarsely, "let me beg of you to reconsider your
words. Only try me again. Let me make a new set of drawings to submit to
you. It would ruin my reputation if you were to send this message to the
firm, for they have hitherto placed much confidence in my work."

"You will leave the house at once," he said, "and send a much older man,
I repeat, to continue the work."

The poor fellow fairly staggered from the drawing-room. He could not
imagine why, in one short hour, he had dropped from heaven to the very
depths of Hades, as it were.

Varrick breathed freely when he saw him leave the house and walk slowly
down the lilac-bordered path and out through the arched gate-way.

A little later Jessie came flying into the library. Varrick was still
seated at the table, poring over his books.

"Where is Mr. Moray--do you know?" she asked, quickly--"I want to return
him a paper he loaned me this morning. I have been looking everywhere
for him, but can not find him. There is something in the paper that you
would like to hear about too."

"Sit down on this hassock, Jessie, and read it to me," he said.

"Oh, no! You want to make fun of me," she pouted, "and see me get
puzzled over all the big words. Please read it yourself, Mr. Varrick."

"Suppose you tell me the substance of it, and that will save me reading
it," he said.

"Oh, I can do that. There isn't so much to tell. It's about a fire last
night on one of the little islands in the St. Lawrence. No doubt you
have heard of the place--Wau-Winet Island. The mysterious stone house
that was on it has been burned to the ground. The owner was away at the
time. It is supposed that everyone else on the island perished in the
flames."

Hubert Varric