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And Andrew, don't mention to Hector what I've done. He wants to do it, poor man, but he simply cannot bring himself to the point of action." "Don't I know it?" Daney's voice rose triumphant. "The blessed old duffer!" he added. "I'll put in a call for New York immediately. We ought to get it through in an hour or two." It was Mr.
Daney's heart skipped a beat, but he remembered this was Friday morning. So he decided not to be foolish and spar for time by asking The Laird what work he referred to. Also, having read somewhere that, in battle, the offensive frequently wins the defensive never he glared defiantly at The Laird and growled. "Well, what are you going to do about it?"
A few days subsequent to Andrew Daney's secret scuttling of the motor-boat Brutus, Nan Brent was amazed to receive a visit from him. "Good-morning, Nan," he saluted her. "I have bad news for you." "What, pray?" she managed to articulate. She wondered if Donald had been injured up in the woods. "Your motor-boat's gone." This was, indeed, bad news. Trouble showed in Nan's face.
Daney was at his desk in the mill office when the doctor entered and, without the least circumlocution, apprised him of the desperate state to which Donald was reduced. "I tell you, Mr. Daney," he declared, and pounded Daney's desk to emphasize his statement, "everything that medical science can do for that boy has been done, but he's slipping out from under us. Our last hope lies in Nan Brent.
In common with several million of his countrymen, he always voiced the first thought that popped into his head; so he lowered that member, likewise his voice, peered cunningly into Andrew Daney's haggard face, and whispered: "Don't tell me he tried to commit suicide, what wit' his poor broken heart an' all!" It was Andrew Daney's turn to peer suspiciously at Dirty Dan.
Bert Darrow set him down at the Tyee Lumber Company's office, and wet and chilled as he was, The Laird went at once to Mr. Daney's office. The latter was just leaving it for the day when The Laird appeared. "Andrew," the latter began briskly.
"That's your handwriting, Mr. Daney," he said, thrusting the large envelop under Daney's nose. "Another letter in a smaller envelop was enclosed by you in this large one. You knew, of course, who wrote it." "Miss Brent brought it personally." Donald started slightly. He was amazed.
Andrew Daney's hands closed about Dirty Dan's collar, and he was jerked violently into the latter's office, while Daney closed and locked the door behind them. The general manager was white and trembling. "You damned, cunning mick, you!" he cried, in a low voice. "I believe you're right. You do know a lot about this affair "
If she can be induced to come to his bedside, hold his hand, and call him pet names when he's rational, he'll buck up and win out. There are no dangerous physical complications to combat now. They are entirely mental." While the physician was speaking, Andrew Daney's face had gradually been taking on the general color-tones of a ripe old Edam cheese.
Some cunning little emissary of the devil must have crept in through his ear while he slept and planted the brilliant idea in Mr. Daney's brain. Eventually, Mr. Daney lay down again. But he could not go to sleep; so he turned on the electric bedside-lamp and looked at his watch.
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