forget what a generous thing you've done for me, Dick."

Blake turned away, but when he left the hotel his face was sternly set.
It had cost him something to check his cousin's friendly advances and
break the last connection between himself and the life he once had led;
but he knew it must be broken, and he felt no pang of envious
bitterness. For many years Bertram had been a good and generous
friend, and Blake sincerely wished him well.

The Challoners left by the Pacific Express the next morning, and that
evening a group of men were engaged in conversation at one end of the
hotel rotunda. One was a sawmill owner; another served the Hudson Bay
Company in the northern wilds; the third was a young, keen-eyed
American, quick in his movements and concise in speech.

"You're in lumber, aren't you?" he said, taking a strip of wood from
his pocket and handing it to the mill owner. "What would you call
this?"

"Cedar, sawn from a good log."

"That's so; red cedar. You know something about that material?"

"I ought to, considering how much of it I've cut. Been in the business
for twenty years."

The American took out another strip.

"The same stuff, sir. How would you say it had been treated?"

The sawmill man carefully examined the piece of wood.

"It's not French polish, but I've never seen varnish as good as this.
Except that it's clear and shows the grain, it's more like some rare
old Japanese lacquer."

"It is varnish. Try to scrape it with your knife."

The man failed to make a mark on it, and the American looked at him
with a smile.

"What would you think of it as a business proposition?"

"If not too dear, it ought to drive every other high-grade varnish off
the market. Do you make the stuff?"

"We're not ready to sell it yet: can't get hold of the raw material in
quantities, and we're not satisfied about the best flux. I'll give you
my card."

It bore the address of a paint and varnish factory in Connecticut, with
the words, "Represented by Cyrus P. Harding," at the bottom.

"Well," said the lumber man, "you seem to have got hold of a good
thing, Mr. Harding; but if you're not open to sell it, what has brought
you over here?"

"I'm looking round; we deal in all kinds of paints, and miss no chance
of a trade. Then I'm going 'way up Northwest. Is there anything doing
in my line there?"

"Not much," the Hudson Bay man answered him. "You may sell a few kegs
along the railroad track, but