"I am." There was no evasion in Rossland's words. They possessed the
hard and definite quality of one who had an incontestable authority
behind him.
"And if she goes ashore?"
"I am going too. Is it any affair of yours, Mr. Holt? Has she asked you
to discuss the matter with me? If so--"
"No, Miss Standish hasn't done that."
"Then please attend to your own business. If you haven't enough to take
up your time, I'll lend you some books. I have several in my cabin."
Without waiting for an answer Rossland coolly moved away. Alan did not
follow. There was nothing for him to resent, nothing for him to
imprecate but his own folly. Rossland's words were not an insult. They
were truth. He had deliberately intruded in an affair which was
undoubtedly of a highly private nature. Possibly it was a domestic
tangle. He shuddered. A sense of humiliation swept over him, and he was
glad that Rossland did not even look back at him. He tried to whistle as
he climbed back to the main-deck; Rossland, even though he detested the
man, had set him right. And he would lend him books, if he wanted to be
amused! Egad, but the fellow had turned the trick nicely. And it was
something to be remembered. He stiffened his shoulders and found old
Donald Hardwick and Stampede Smith. He did not leave them until the
_Nome_ had landed her passengers and freight and was churning her way
out of Gastineau Channel toward Skagway.
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