"Hello, dad!" he greeted The Laird cheerfully. "Glad to see you. When did you get back?"
"Came down on the morning train, Donald."
They were shaking hands now. The Laird motioned him to a chair, and asked abruptly.
"Where have you been all day, son?"
"Well, I represented the clan at church this morning, and, after luncheon here, I went down to visit the Brents at the Sawdust Pile. Stayed for dinner. Old Caleb's in rather bad shape mentally and physically, and I tried to cheer him up. Nan sang for me—quite like old times."
"I saw Nan Brent on the beach the other day. Quite a remarkable young woman. Attractive, I should say," the old man answered craftily.
"It's a pity, dad. She's every inch a woman. Hard on a girl with brains and character to find herself in such a sorry tangle."
The Laird's heavy heart was somewhat lightened by the frankness and lack of suspicion with which his son had met his blunt query as to where he had been spending his time. For the space of a minute, he appeared to be devoting his thoughts to a consideration of Donald's last remark; presently he sighed, faced his son, and took the plunge.
"Have you heard anything about a fight down near the Sawdust Pile last night, my son?" he demanded.
His son's eyes opened with interest and astonishment.