"Aunt?"
"Why, Mrs. Fairhew. Katrine's traveling with her now. She's the only near relative Katrine has."
"But if it isn't money"—
"No, it isn't that. The truth is—I heard it from Mrs. Fairhew once; I wasn't sure then, and I'm not now, whether she knew quite how much she was telling me, and meant it for a warning, or not. I'm half inclined to think she did."
"But what was it?" inquired Jerry, as Jack paused to meditate, with his eyes fixed earnestly on the fire.
"Oh, Uncle Randolph had some sort of a row with Katrine's father when they were young men. I fancy it was about a girl, for I know there was one somewhere along about that time. I've heard father speak of it, and say it altered Uncle Randolph's whole life. Anyway, there was some sort of a scrap, and Uncle Randolph never forgave it."
"Humph!" was Taberman's comment. "It's rather crotchety of him to vent his spite on Miss Marchfield."
"Of course it is," Castleport answered, "but he's not so bad as it looks. He's been awfully good to me all my life."
A brief pause followed, in which both were probably reflecting upon the character of Randolph Drake, one of Boston's prominent men, president of one of the largest banks, and trustee of a dozen important corporations; a man whose chief aim in life was, apparently, making money, whose amusement was yachting. It was in connection with this sport that he had a few years before bought the island and put up the house in which his motives were now being discussed. The place served as a shooting-box or as a base of supplies, and was provided with a trig little harbor exactly adapted for the accommodation of the President's yacht, the Merle.
"After all," Jack said at length, "Uncle Randolph really cares more for me than he does for anything else in the world."