Bat, in his wonder at the apparent ease of his rescue, had sought
information. But little enough had been forthcoming. Leslie Standing had
only smiled in his pensive fashion.

"Money," he had said calmly. "Just money. It can do most things."

That was all. And thenceforward the subject had been taboo. Even after
seven years of intimate relations, Bat was still mystified on the
subject, he was still guessing.

Now, as he listened to his friend's expressions of faith, so strangely
jumbled with calculated purpose, he sat at the table groping helplessly.
Suppose--suppose that faith were to be shattered. What then? His mind
was concerned, deeply concerned. And he dared not put his fears into
words.

Standing came back to his chair.

"Here, we've talked these things enough," he said. "You've got my word.
Just don't worry a thing. If Hellbeam's dogs get around, well--we're
here first. All I want is news of Nancy. And that'll be along any old
time now. When I get that--."

The door of the office was thrust open, and an olive-hued face appeared.
It was the clerk who worked in direct contact with the owner of the
Sachigo mill. He was one-third nigger, another French Canadian, and the
rest of him was Indian. It was a combination that appealed to the man
who employed him.