Sir James Yardely sat in the shelter of his tent looking anxiously at Gerald Ainley.  
"Then you have not found my niece, Ainley?"
 
"No, Sir James! But I have news of her, and I am assured she is alive."
 
"Tell me what gives you that assurance."
 
Ainley thereupon described the search he had made, and produced the swastiki brooch, explaining the circumstances under which he had found it, and then gave an account of the meeting with the half-breed and of the latter's declaration that he had seen Helen going up the main river in a canoe with a white man.
 
"But why on earth should Helen go up there?" asked Sir James wonderingly.
 
"I cannot say, Sir James! I can only guess, and that is that Miss Yardely knew that we were making for the old Fort Winagog, and mentioned it to her rescuer who was probably journeying that way. Anyhow I went up to the Fort. The Indians there had not seen nor heard of any white girl in the neighbourhood, but I gave them instructions to look for her, a reward if she were found, then I hurried back here by the shorter route in the hope that possibly Miss Yardely might have returned in the meantime."
 
Sir James stared through the tent-door at the wild landscape before him. His face showed a lightening of his anxiety, though it was clear that the turn of events puzzled him.
 
"I can't understand it," he said. "Why shouldn't Helen have made her way straight back here?"
 
"Can't say, Sir James! Possibly the man who helped her doesn't know the country, and of course Miss Yardely is quite ignorant of it."
 
"And here she is, lost in the , careering round the compass with heaven knows what come-by-chance fellow!" commented Sir James, adding quickly, "Ainley, she has got to be found!"
 
"Yes, Sir James!"
 
"This unfortunate affair has upset me. It has quite disarranged my plans. We have lost five days here, and I shall be compelled to my journey. I have to cut out the visits to the posts north of this, and to work across to the Peace River, and so southward."
 
"You are going back?" cried Ainley in some . "You are going to leave Miss Yardely——"
 
"No, my dear fellow," interrupted Sir James, anticipating the conclusion of his subordinate's sentence. "I am not going to leave her to her fate. I am going to leave you to find her. I have thought the matter out very carefully. I shall leave four Indians with you, and shall establish a camp at this point, so that in the event of Helen returning here you will not miss her by any chance. I shall send a messenger to Rodwell, at Fort Malsun, instructing him to send you down an that will last the winter if necessary, and you will have carte blanche to follow your own plans, only you must understand, Ainley, my niece must be found. Even though you have to comb this country through with a dust-comb she must be found."
 
"She shall be, Sir James," answered Ainley with conviction.
 
"It is, of course, just possible that the man with whom your half-breed saw her was making north to the post at Lobstick , and it will be as well to make an early there."
 
"Yes, Sir James, I have thought of that."
 
"By the way, did you get any description of the man whom my niece was with?"
 
"Yes. You remember that man who was at Fort Malsun, and who departed quietly one night?"
 
"You mean that fellow whom you knew at , and who has since gone under?"
 
"That is the man, Sir James; I am convinced of it, from the half-breed's description."
 
A look of anxiety came on the great man's face. "A discharged convict, wasn't he, Ainley?"
 
"Yes, Sir James. He is of good family, and I fancy he is wealthy, for he succeeded to the estate whilst he was in prison, and came out here I imagine, because the old country was impossible to him."
 
"What was the crime that knocked him out of things?"
 
"!"
 
"Um!" was the reply. "Things might have been worse. Possibly the fellow will remember that he used to be a gentleman."
 
"Possibly," agreed the younger man.
 
"Anyhow, you know exactly who you have to look for and that ought to make your task much easier. Rodwell will instruct all the Indians who show up at Fort Malsun to keep a bright look-out and no doubt in a few days you will get track of her. But as I said just now, she must be found, at all costs she must be found!"
 
"Yes, Sir James! I shall spare no effort to that end, and I may say that, if possible, I am even more anxious about her than you."
 
A half-smile came on the great man's face, as he nodded: "I understand, Ainley; I am not blind. It was for that reason I decided that you should have charge of the search-party, seeing that you have—er—extra inducements. Find my niece, bring her back to me, and then we can talk over the matter. And now you had better go and think out your plans carefully. I shall have to leave here in the morning, but now that I know Helen is alive, I shall go with a comparatively easy heart."
 
Gerald Ainley went to his own tent with a smile on his face. For the furtherance of his ultimate plans things could scarcely have fallen out better. It was true that Helen yet remained to be found; but he was to be left to find her, and was to have a free hand in the matter. After a week or two in the wilderness Helen would be glad enough to meet with an old friend bringing deliverance, and the of daily travel together would bring her to his arms. His brow darkened a little as he thought of her present protector. Then it cleared again. Helen was very proud. Circumstances for the present had thrown her into Stane's company, but she was the last person in the world to forget that Stane was an ex-convict, and as he thought of that, all of possible complications in that quarter vanished instantly.
 
Had he known all, or had he even at that moment been granted a vision of the camp by the great deadfall, he would scarcely have been so of mind. For at the very time when he was congratulating himself on the opportunity opening out before him, Helen Yardely was seated on a log by the side of the man whom he hated. There was a high colour in her face and she was laughing a little as she looked at the astonished face of the sick man who had been her rescuer and was now her patient.
 
"Miss Yardely," cried Stane, "do you really mean what you say?"
 
"Of course I do," replied the girl lightly.
 
"And Gerald Ainley with another man camped within two miles of here two nights ago?"
 
"I should say the distance to the lake is even less than that," replied Helen with a little laugh.
 
"And you let them go without a sign."
 
"I hid myself in the bushes," replied the girl, .
 
"But do you realize that they were probably, searching for you?"
 
"Yes! And I was afraid that they might find me. I even put out the fire that they should not discover our camp and come up to investigate. When I saw them going away yestermorning I could have clapped my hands for gladness."
 
Stane looked at her incredulously. Here was something that was beyond him.
 
"Why—why did you let them go?" he cried sharply.
 
"You wish I had revealed myself?" she asked with compunction, misunderstanding his question. "You think I ought to have brought them up here?"
 
"That was for yourself to decide," he answered quietly, adding with a little laugh. "I am well content with things as they are. But I am curious to know why you let deliverance from the hardships of this situation pass by on the other side."
 
"Oh," replied Helen in some confusion, "I remembered that you did not like Gerald Ainley!"
 
"But," he protested, "there was yourself to think of."
 
"Yes," was the reply, given with laughter, "and I was doing so—if you only knew it."
 
"How? I cannot see it."
 
"You forget my pride as amateur surgeon and nurse," she retorted. "I like to see the end of things that I begin, and if I had brought Mr. Ainley up here he would have wanted to take me away, and leave you with the Indian." She broke off, and looked at him with a gay smile. "Perhaps you would have preferred——"
 
"No! No!" he interrupted protestingly.
 
"And there is another reason—quite as selfish as the last. You see, Mr. Stane, I have been delicately reared; boarding-school, Newnham—the usual round you know! London in the season, Scotland in the autumn, and the shires for the hunting months. It is an sort of life, as I have always felt, pleasant enough at first, but inane for all that, and after a time rather a bore. Can you understand that?"
 
"Yes," he said, with a nod, "I think I can."
 
"Most of the men of our set have something to do! Either they are in the army, or in Parliament, or managing estates, but the women—well, they live a butterfly life. There seems to me no escape for them. Do what they will, unless they become suffragettes and smash windows or fat policemen, their life drifts one way. Charity?—it ends in a charity ball. Politics?—it means just garden-parties or week-ends at country houses, with a little absurd of rural labourers at election times. Sometimes I used to consider it, and with that bus-driver of Stevenson's who drove to the station and then ............