“In the meantime——­” said Welton apparently not noting the fact that Bob had become aware of the senior Orde’s connection with the land.

“In the meantime I’m going to postpone action if I can.”

“They’re summoning witnesses for the Basin trial.”

“I’ll do the best I can,” concluded Bob.

Accordingly he wrote the next day to his father.  In this letter he stated frankly the situation as far as it affected the Wolverine lands, but said nothing about the threatened criminal charges against Welton.  That was another matter.  He set out the great value of the Basin lands and the methods by which they had been acquired.  He pointed out his duty, both as a forest officer and as a citizen, but balanced this by the private considerations that had developed from the situation.

This dispatched, he applied for leave.

“This is the busy season, and we can spare no one,” said Thorne.  “You have important matters on hand.”

“This is especially important,” urged Bob.

“It is absolutely impossible.  Come two months later, and I’ll be glad to lay you off as long as I can.”

“This particular affair is most urgent business.”

“Private, of course?”

“Not entirely.”

“Couldn’t be considered official?”

“It might become so.”

“What is it?”

“That I am not at liberty to tell you.”

Thorne considered.

“No; I’m sorry, but I don’t see how I can spare you.”

“In that case,” said Bob quietly, “you will force me to tender my resignation.”

Thorne looked up at him quickly, and studied his face.

“From anybody else, Orde,” said he, “I’d take that as a threat or a hold-up, and fire the man on the spot.  From you I do not.  The matter must be really serious.  You may go.  Get back as soon as you can.”

“Thank you,” said Bob.  “It is serious.  Three days will do me.”

He set about his preparations at once, packing a suit case with linen long out of commission, smoothing out the tailored clothes he had not had occasion to use for many a day.  He then transported this—­and himself—­down the mountain on his saddle horse.  At Auntie Belle’s he changed his clothes.  The next morning he caught the stage, and by the day following walked up the main street of Fremont.

He had no trouble in finding Baker’s office.  The Sycamore Creek operations were one group of many.  As one of Baker’s companies furnished Fremont with light and power, it followed that at night the name of that company blazed forth in thousands of lights.  The sign was not the less legible, though not so fiery, by day.  Bob walked into extensive ground-floor offices behind plate-glass windows.  Here were wickets and railings through which and over which the public business was transacted.  A narrow passageway sidled down between the wall and a row of ground-glass doors, on which were lettered the names of various officers of the company.  At a swinging bar separating this passage from the main office sat a uniformed boy directing and stamping envelopes.