He tossed the cigarette stub into the stove and drawing a long, sealed manilla envelope from a pocket handed it to her. “Yvonne,” he said, “I want you to go over to Kam City with me in the racer this afternoon. When we land you are to go to J. J. Slack’s office and deliver this letter from J.C.X. to him. If he asks any questions, tell him the wireless broke down and it was impossible to get in touch with him.”
“Aren’t you going to see Mr. Slack yourself?”
“Likely, but say nothing to him about it. I am leaving for Montreal to-night.”
“For Montreal?” She bit her nether lip in the nervous effort it cost her to follow up: “Alone?”
“Yes, alone. Why do you ask, Yvonne?”
She toyed with the letter he had handed her, her eyes averted. “Alexander,”—she pronounced the name softly and with a great diffidence—“who is the girl living on Amethyst Island?”
Acey Smith smiled good-naturedly. “Miss Stone, you mean? She’ll be leaving here shortly.”
“For where?”
He shrugged. “That—depends on circumstances.”
“Did you know her before she came out here?”