They talked over the matter until it got late; and the next morning the party broke up, the Osbornes returning home and Aynsley going back to his mill. Clay, however, stayed in Vancouver and visited a doctor who was beginning to make his mark. There were medical men in Seattle who would have been glad to attend to him, but he preferred the Canadian city, where he was not so well known. He had been troubled rather often of late by sensations that puzzled him, and had decided that if he had any serious weakness it would be better to keep it to himself. Hitherto he had been noted for his mental and physical force, and recognized as a daring, unscrupulous fighter whom it was wise to conciliate, and it might prove damaging if rumors that he was not all he seemed got about.
His work was not finished and his ambitions were only half realized. Aynsley had his mother’s graces, for Clay’s wife had been a woman of some refinement who had yielded to the fascination the handsome adventurer once exercised. The boy must have wealth enough to make him a prominent figure on the Pacific Slope. Clay knew his own limitations, and was content that his son should attain a social position he could not enjoy. This was one reason why he had been more troubled about Farquhar’s salvage operations than he cared to admit. His personal reputation was, as he very well knew, not of the best, but his business exploits, so far as they were known to the public, were, after all, regarded with a certain toleration and would be forgotten. The wreck, however, was a more serious matter, and might have a damaging effect on his son’s career if the truth concerning it came out. This must be avoided at any cost. Moreover, with his business increasing, he would need all his faculties during the next few years, and the mysterious weakness he suffered from now and then dulled his brain. In consequence, he was prudently but rather unwillingly going to see a doctor.
The man examined him with a careful interest which Clay thought ominous, and after questioning him about his symptoms stood silent a few moments.
“You have lived pretty hard,” he commented.
“I have,” said Clay, “but perhaps not in the way that’s generally meant.”
The doctor nodded as he studied him. Clay’s face showed traces of indulgence, but these were not marked. The man was obviously not in the habit of exercising an ascetic control over his appetites, but he looked too hard and virile to be a confirmed sensualist. Yet, to a practised eye, he showed signs of wear.
“I mean that you haven’t been careful of yourself.”
“I hadn’t much chance of doing so until comparatively recent years,” Clay replied with a grim smile. “In my younger days, I suffered heat and thirst in the Southwest; afterwards I marched on half-rations, carrying a heavy pack, in the Alaskan snow; and I dare say I got into the habit of putting my object first.”
“Before what are generally considered the necessities of life—food and rest and sleep?”
“Something of the kind.”