* * * * *

When a ruddy dawn broke through the gray cloud battalions Jack MacRae
sat on a chair before the fireplace in the front room, his elbows on his
knees, his chin in his cupped palms. He had been sitting like that for
two hours. The fir logs had wasted away to a pile of white ash spotted
with dying coals. MacRae sat heedless that the room was growing cold.

He did not even lift his head at the sound of heavy footsteps on the
porch. He did not move until a voice at the door spoke his name in
accents of surprise.

"Is that you, yourself, Johnny MacRae?"

The voice was deep and husky and kind, and it was not native to Squitty
Cove. MacRae lifted his head to see his father's friend and his own,
Doctor Laidlaw, physician and fisherman, bulking large. And beyond the
doctor he saw a big white launch at anchor inside the Cove.

"Yes," MacRae said.

"How's your father?" Laidlaw asked. "That wire worried me. I made the
best time I could."

"He's dead," MacRae answered evenly. "He died at midnight."