“And mine’s Beatrice Richmond.”

“That’s plenty to go on. Now, hide in the bushes. We must hurry up the fire.” And he cried to Hank: “Come on, Vanderkief!”

Miss Richmond’s teeth were chattering; but she delayed long enough to engage her brother aside a moment. “His name’s Wade, not Chang.”

“Good Heaven!” muttered Heck. “What’s the meaning of all this? Beatrice, who on earth is the fellow? Why, you aren’t even sure of his name!”

“Mind your own business,” said Beatrice tranquilly. “He’s an old friend of yours—of mine—of the family—an artist we met in Paris. Don’t forget that.”

Heck clinched his fists and drew his features into a frown that would have looked dangerous had his chin been stronger. “I’ll not stand for it. I’m going to take you bang off home.”

“And put Hank on to the whole business?—and[78] end the engagement?—and disgrace me?—and yourself?—and the family?” Everyone of these cumulative reasons why Heck could not refuse to conspire she emphasized with a little laugh. She ended: “Oh, I guess not. I care less about it than you do. Be careful, or I’ll give it away, myself. It would be such fun!”

[78]

Hector, despite his anger, gave an appreciative grin, for he had a sense of humor.

“Behave yourself,” said Beatrice. “Go help get wood.”

“But what’ll mother say—and father! Holy cat! How father will scream!”

“Don’t you worry. Do your part!” And Beatrice vanished among the bushes and huge glacial rocks.

Roger conducted his part in the deception with signal distinction. He so busied himself collecting huge pieces of wood and bearing them to the central pile they were making in an open space that he had no breath or time for conversation; and as the other two men could not but follow so worthy an example, not a word was said. Besides, a glance at the face of either big Hank or little Heck was enough to disclose how industriously they were thinking. Once Hank, finding himself near the picture, began to edge round for a look at it. He thought Roger was 

 Prev. P 45/220 next