r, the
fighting of strong men, the politics, all the forces which go to make or
break your business. Well, I didn't do it, and I'm not sorry. I have a
gift which, by training and development, will give me a place among the
men who do things, if I have good luck--good luck!"

He dwelt upon these last words with an intensity which dreaded
something. There was retrospection in his eyes. A cloud seemed to cross
his face.

A strong step crunching the path stopped the conversation, and presently
there appeared the figure of Tarboe. Certainly the new life had not
changed Tarboe, had not altered his sturdy, strenuous nature. His
brown eyes under the rough thatch of his eyebrow took in the room
with lightning glance, and he nodded respectfully, yet with great
friendliness, at John Grier. He seemed to have news, and he glanced with
doubt at Carnac.

John Grier understood. "Go ahead. What's happened?"

"Nothing that can't wait till I'm introduced to your son," rejoined
Tarboe.

With a friendly look, free from all furtiveness, Carnac reached out a
hand, small, graceful, firm. As Tarboe grasped it in his own big paw, he
was conscious of a strength in the grip which told him that the physical
capacity of the "painter-fellow," as he afterwards called Carnac, had
points worthy of respect. On the instant, there was admiration on the
part of each--admiration and dislike. Carnac liked the new-comer for
his healthy bearing, for the iron hardness of his head, and for the
intelligence of his dark eyes. He disliked him, however, for something
that made him critical of his father, something covert and devilishly
alert. Both John Grier and Tarboe were like two old backwoodsmen, eager
to reach their goal, and somewhat indifferent to the paths by which they
travelled to it.

Tarboe, on the other hand, admired the frank, pleasant face of the
young man, which carried still the irresponsibility of youth, but which
conveyed to the watchful eye a brave independence, a fervid, and perhaps
futile, challenge to all the world. Tarboe understood that this young
man had a frankness dangerous to the business of life, yet which,
properly applied, might bring great results. He disliked Carnac for his
uncalculating candour; but he realized that, behind all, was something
disturbing to his life.

"It's a woman," Tarboe said to himself, "it's a woman. He's made a fool
of himself."

Tarboe was right. He had done what no one else had done--he had pierced