"Speak, Glen, and tell me at once whether you have seen him since."
Something in her father's voice startled the girl, and she looked up quickly into his face.
"Tell me," he again demanded. "What is the matter? Have you seen that man lately?"
"Yes, I have."
"Where?"
"Here."
"At Glen West? He has been here, and you have seen him? Are you sure?"
"I am certain. I was with him this afternoon in the canoe. But, daddy, what is the matter? Oh, don't get angry. I didn't do anything wrong."
Jim Weston had risen to his feet, and was looking down upon his daughter. He was a powerfully-built man, of more than ordinary height. The northern winter was in his thick hair and heavy moustache, while his steady light-blue eyes and firm, well-built chin betokened a strong will power of unyielding determination. Glen had often expressed her unbounded admiration for her father, and believed him to be the most handsome man in the world. But now he seemed like an avenging god, about to visit upon her the force of his wrath. For the first time in her life she cowered before him, and hid her face in her hands.
"And you say that your rescuer is here?" Weston at length asked. "When did he come, and where is he staying?"