Vane could sympathize. The narrative had been crudely matter-of-fact, but he had been out on the prospecting trail often enough to fill in the details the sick man omitted. He had slept in the rain, very scantily fed, and he could picture the starving man limping along in an agony of pain and exhaustion, with an injured knee, over boulders and broken rock and through dense tangles of underbrush strewed with mighty fallen logs.
"How far was the valley from the inlet?" he asked.
"I can't tell you. I think I was three days on the trail; but it might have been more. I was too sick to remember. Anyway, there was a creek you could run the logs down."
"Well, how far was the inlet from the rancherie?"
"I was in the canoe part of one night and some of the next day. I can't get it any clearer. We had a fair breeze. Guess thirty miles wouldn't be far out."
"That's something to go upon. How much does your daughter earn?"
It was an abrupt change of subject, but the man answered as Vane had expected. The girl's wages might maintain her economically, but it was difficult to see how she could provide for her sick father. The latter seemed to guess Vane's thoughts, for he spoke again.
"If I'd known I was done for when I was up in the bush, I wouldn't have pushed on quite so fast," he said with expressive simplicity.
Vane rose.
"If Drayton will come along with me, I'll send him back with a hundred dollars. It's part of the first payment. Your getting it now should make things a little easier for Celia."