The Destroying Angel

by Louis Joseph Vance

  XI

  THE SPY

  Whitaker slept soundly but lightly: the adventures of the evening hadnot been so fatiguing as to render his slumbers profound, after threedays of sheer loafing. And he awoke early, roused by a level beam ofblood-red light thrown full upon his face by the rising sun.

  He lay for a time languid, watching the incarnadined walls and lazilyexamining the curious thrill of interest with which he found himselfanticipating the day to come. It seemed a long time since he had lookedforward to the mere routine of existence with so strong an assurance ofemotional diversion. He idled in whimsical humour with an odd conceit tothe effect that the roots of his soul had somehow been mysteriouslywatered, so that it was about to burgeon like a green bay tree--whateverthat might mean. And with this he experienced an exhilarating glow ofwell-being that had of late been more a stranger to his body than heliked to admit.

  He wondered why. Was the change in the weather responsible? Or had themere act of withdrawing from the world for a little time wrought someesoteric change in the inscrutable chemistry of his sentiments? Had therecent innocuous waste of time somehow awakened him to the value of themere act of living? Or, again--absurd surmise!--was all this due simplyto the instinct of sex: was it merely the man in him quickening to theknowledge that a pretty woman existed in his neighbourhood?

  At this last he laughed openly, and jumped out of bed. At all events, nohealthy man had any business dawdling away a single minute of so rare amorning.

  Already the sun was warm, the faint breeze bland. Standing at the windowand shading his eyes against the glare, he surveyed a world new-washedand radiant: the sun majestically climbing up and away from the purplelattice-work of cloud that barred the nitid mauve horizon; the distantbeach, a violet-tinted barrier between the firmament and sea; thelandlocked bay dimpled with vagrant catspaws and smitten with sunlightas with a scimitar of fire; the earth fresh and fragrant, steamingfaintly in the ardent glow of dawn.

  In another moment he was at the kitchen door, interrupting Sum Fat'sfirst matutinal attentions to his teeth with a demand for abathing-suit. One of Ember's was promptly forthcoming, and by happyaccident fitted him indifferently well; so that three minutes laterfound him poised on the end of the small dock, above fifteen feet ofwater so limpid bright that he could easily discern the shapes ofpebbles on the bottom.

  He dived neatly, coming to the surface with his flesh tingling withdelight of the cool water; then with the deliberate and powerfulmovements of an experienced swimmer, struck away from the land.

  Two hundred yards out he paused, rolled over on his back and, handsclasped beneath his head, floated serenely, sunlight warming hisupturned face, his body rejoicing in the suave, clean, fluid embrace, analmost overpowering sense of physical sanity and boundless strengthrioting through him. Quietly, intimately, he smiled at the sound, goodold world, athrill with the wonder and beauty of life.

  Then something disturbed him: a dull fluttering, vibrant upon hissubmerged eardrums. Extending his arms and moving his hands gently topreserve his poise, he lifted his head from the water. The neighbouringshore-line leaped flashing to his vision like an exquisite disclosure ofjewelled marquetry. His vision ranged quickly from Ember's landing-stageto that on the water-front of the Fiske place, and verified a surmisewith the discovery of a motor-boat standing out from the latter. Thechurning of its propeller had roused him.

  Holding its present course, the boat would clear him by several hundredyards. He lay quiet, watching. Despite its generous proportions--it wasa fair-sized cabin cruiser, deep-seaworthy in any ordinary weather--hecould see but a single person for all its crew. Seated astern, dividingher attention between the side steering-wheel and the engine, she wasaltogether ignorant of the onlooker. Only her head and shoulders showedabove the coaming: her head with its shining golden crown, her shoulderscloaked with a light wrap gathered at the throat.

  Whitaker, admiring, wondered....

  Sweeping in a wide arc as it gathered speed, the boat presently shot outsmartly on a straight course for the barrier beach.

  Why? What business had she there? And at an hour so early?

  No affair of his: Whitaker admitted as much, freely. And yet, no reasonexisted why he should not likewise take an impersonal interest in thedistant ocean beach. As a matter of fact (he discovered uponexamination) he was vastly concerned in that quarter. Already he wasbeginning his fourth day on the Great West Bay without having set footupon its Great South Beach! Ridiculous oversight! And one to be remediedwithout another hour's delay.

  Grinning with amused toleration of his own perverse sophistry, he turnedover on his side and struck out in the wake of the motor-boat. He hadover a mile to go; but such a distance was nothing dismaying to aswimmer of Whitaker's quality, who had all his life been on veryfriendly terms with the sea.

  No one held a watch on him; but when at length he waded ashore he wascomplacent in the knowledge that he had made very good time.

  He found the motor-boat moored in shallow water at the end of a long andsubstantial dock. The name displayed in letters of brass on its sternwas, frankly, _Trouble_. He paused waist-deep to lean over the side andinspect the cockpit; the survey drew from him an expression of approval.The boat seemed to be handsomely appointed, and the motor exposed by theopen hatch of the engine pit was of a make synonymous with speed andreliability. He patted the flanks of the vessel as he waded on.

  "Good little boat!" said he.

  A weather-beaten sign-board on the dock advertised a surf-bathingstation. Ashore a plank walk crossed first a breadth of sedge marsh andthen penetrated a tumbled waste of dunes. Where the summits of thelatter met the sky, there were visible a series of angular and unlovelywooden edifices.

  Whitaker climbed up on the walk and made seawards. He saw nothing of thelady of the motor-boat.

  In fact, for some time he saw nothing in human guise; from otherindications he was inclined to conclude that the bathing station waseither closed for the season or else had been permanently abandonedwithin a year or so. There was a notable absence of rowboats and sailingcraft about the dock, with, as he drew nearer to the shuttered anddesolate cluster of bath-houses, an equally remarkable lack of garmentsand towels hanging out to dry.

  Walking rapidly, he wasn't long in covering the distance from shore toshore. Very soon he stood at the head of a rude flight of wooden stepswhich ran down from the top of a wave-eaten sand bluff, some ten ortwelve feet in height, to the broad and gently shelving ocean beach.Whipping in from the sea, a brisk breeze, from which the dunes hadheretofore sheltered him, now cooled his dripping bathing-suit notaltogether pleasantly. But he didn't mind. The sight of the surfcompensated.

  He had long since been aware of its resonant diapason, betokening aheavy sea; but the spectacle of it was one ever beautiful in his sight.Whitecaps broke the lustrous blue, clear to its serrated horizon.Inshore the tide was low; the broad and glistening expanse of naked wetsand mirrored the tender blueness of the skies far out to where thebreakers weltered in confusion of sapphire, emerald and snow. A mileoffshore a fishing smack with a close-reefed, purple patch of sail wasmaking heavy weather of it; miles beyond it, again, an inward-boundocean steamship shouldered along contemptuously; and a little wayeastwards a multitude of gulls with flashing pinions were wheeling anddarting and screaming above something in the sea--presumably a school offish.

  Midway between the sand bluff and the breaking waters stood the womanWhitaker had followed. (There wasn't any use mincing terms: he _had_followed her in his confounded, fatuous curiosity!) Her face was to thesea, her hands clasped behind her. Now the wind modelled her cloaksweetly to her body, now whipped its skirts away, disclosing legsstraight and slender and graciously modelled. She was dressed, itseemed, for bathing; she had crossed the bay for a lonely bout with thesurf, and having found it dangerously heavy, now lingered, disappointedbut fascinated by the majestic beauty of its fury.

  Whitaker turned to go, his inquisitiveness appeased; but he was a
ware ofan annoying sense of shame, which he considered rather low on the partof his conscience. True, he had followed her; true, he had watched herat a moment when she had every reason to believe herself alone with thesky, the sand, the sea and the squabbling gulls. But--the beach was freeto all; there was no harm done; he hadn't really meant to spy upon her,and he had not the slightest intention of forcing himself upon herconsciousness.

  Intentions, however, are one thing; accidents, another entirely. Historyis mainly fashioned of intentions that have met with accidents.

  Whitaker turned to go, and turning let his gaze sweep up from the beachand along the brow of the bluff. He paused, frowning. Some twenty feetor so distant the legs of a man, trousered and booted, protruded from ahollow between two hummocks of sand. And the toes of the boots weredigging into the sand, indicating that the man was lying prone; and thatmeant (if he were neither dead nor sleeping) that he was watching thewoman on the beach.

  Indignation, righteous indignation, warmed Whitaker's bosom. It was allvery well for him to catch sight of the woman through her cottagewindow, by night, and to swim over to the beach in her wake the nextmorning, but what right had anybody else to constitute himself hershadow?... All this on the mute evidence of the boots and trousers:Whitaker to his knowledge had never seen them before, but he had solittle doubt they belonged to the other watcher by the window last nightthat he readily persuaded himself that this must be so.

  Besides, it was possible that the man was Drummond.

  Anyway, nobody was licensed to skulk among sand-dunes and spy uponunescorted females!

  Instantly Whitaker resolved himself into a select joint committee forthe Promulgation of the Principles of Modern Chivalry and theElucidation of the Truth.

  He strode forward and stood over the man, looking down at his back. Itwas true, as he had assumed: the fellow was watching the woman. Chin inhands, elbows half-buried in sand, he seemed to be following her with anundeviating regard. And his back was very like Drummond's; at least, inheight and general proportion his figure resembled Drummond's closelyenough to leave Whitaker without any deterring doubt.

  A little quiver of excitement mingled with anticipative satisfaction ranthrough him. Now, at last, the mystery was to be cleared up, his futurerelations with the pseudo suicide defined and established.

  Deliberately he extended his bare foot and nudged the man's ribs.

  "Drummond...." he said in a clear voice, decided but unaggressive.

  With an oath and what seemed a single, quick motion, the man jumped tohis feet and turned to Whitaker a startled and inflamed countenance.

  "What the devil!" he cried angrily. "Who are you? What do you want? Whatd'you mean by coming round here and calling me Drummond?"

  He was no more Drummond than he was Whitaker himself.

  Whitaker retreated a step, nonplussed. "I beg pardon," he stammeredcivilly, in his confusion; "I took you for a fr--a man I know."

  "Well, I ain't, see!" For a moment the man glowered at Whitaker, hisfeatures twitching. Apparently the shock of surprise had temporarilydislocated his sense of proportion. Rage blazed from his bloodshot,sunken eyes, and rage was eloquent in the set of his rusty, square-hewnchin and the working of his heavy and begrimed hands.

  "Damn you!" he exploded suddenly. "What d'you mean by butting in--"

  "For that matter"--something clicked in Whitaker's brain andsubconsciously he knew that his temper was about to take thebridge--"what the devil do _you_ mean by spying on that lady yonder?"

  It being indisputably none of his concern, the unfairness of thequestion only lent it offensive force. It was quite evidently more thanthe man could or would bear from any officious stranger. He made thispainfully clear through the medium of an intolerable epithet and anattempt to land his right fist on Whitaker's face.

  The face, however, was elsewhere when the fist reached the point forwhich it had been aimed; and Whitaker closed in promptly as the fellow'sbody followed his arm, thrown off balance by the momentum of theunobstructed blow. Thoroughly angered, he had now every intention ofadministering a sound and salutary lesson.

  In pursuance with this design, he grappled and put forth his strength tothrow the man.

  What followed had entered into the calculations of neither. Whitakerfelt himself suddenly falling through air thick with a blinding, chokingcloud of dust and sand. The body of the other was simultaneouslywrenched violently from his grasp. Then he brought up against soliditywith a bump that seemed to expel every cubic inch of air from his lungs.And he heard himself cry out sharply with the pain of his weak anklenewly twisted....

  He sat up, gasping for breath, brushed the sand from his face and eyes,and as soon as his whirling wits settled a little, comprehended what hadhappened.

  Half buried in the debris of a miniature landslide, he sat at the footof the bluff, which reared its convex face behind and over him.Immediately above his head a ragged break in its profile showed wherethe sand, held together solely by beach grass, had given way beneath theweight of the antagonists.

  A little distance from him the other man was picking himself up,apparently unhurt but completely surfeited. Without delay, with not evenso much as a glance at Whitaker, he staggered off for a few paces, thensettled into a heavy, lumbering trot westward along the beach.

  This conduct was so inconsistent with his late belligerent humour thatWhitaker felt inclined to rub his eyes a second time. He hadanticipated--as soon as in condition to reason at all--nothing less thanan immediate resumption of hostilities. Yet here was the fellow runningaway. Incomprehensible!

  And yet, save at the first blush, not so incomprehensible: the chief ofthe man's desire had been unquestionably to see without being seen; hisrage at being detected had led him to a misstep; now he was reverting tohis original plan with all possible expedition. He did not wish thewoman to recognize him; therefore he was putting himself out of her way.For she was approaching.

  When Whitaker caught sight of her, she was already close at hand. Shehad been running. Now as their glances met, hers keenly inquiring ofWhitaker's still bewildered eyes, she pulled up abruptly and stoodastare. He saw, or fancied, something closely akin to fright andconsternation in her look. The flush in her cheeks gave way to a swiftpallor. The hands trembled that drew her beach-cloak close about her.She seemed to make an ineffectual effort to speak.

  On his part, Whitaker tried to get up. A keen twinge in his ankle,however, wrung an involuntary grunt from him, and with a wry grimace hesank back.

  "Oh!" cried the woman, impulsively. "You're hurt!" She advanced a pace,solicitous and sympathetic.

  "Oh, not much," Whitaker replied in a tone more of hope than ofassurance. He felt tenderly of the injured member. "Only myankle--twisted it a few days ago, and now again. It'll be all right in amoment or two."

  Her gaze travelled from him to the edge of the bluff.

  "I didn't see--I mean, I heard something, and turned, and saw you tryingto sit up and the other man rising."

  "Sorry we startled you," Whitaker mumbled, wondering how the deuce hewas going to get home. His examination of the ankle hadn't provedgreatly encouraging.

  "But I--ah--how did it happen?"

  "A mere misunderstanding," he said lightly. "I mistook the gentleman forsome one I knew. He resented it, so we started to scrap like a couple ofschoolboys. Then ... I wish to Heaven it had been his leg instead ofmine!"

  "But still I hardly understand...."

  She was now more composed. The colour had returned to her face. Shestood with head inclined a trifle forward, gaze intent beneath delicatebrows; most distractingly pretty, he thought, in spite of theankle--which really didn't hurt much unless moved.

  "Well, you see, I--ah--I'm visiting Ember--the cottage next to yours, Ibelieve. That is, if I'm not mistaken, you have the Fiske place?"

  She nodded.

  "And so, this morning, it struck me as a fine young idea to swim overhere and have a look at the beach. I--ah--you rather showed me the way,w
ith your motor-boat. I mean I saw you start out."

  He felt better after that: open confession is a great help when onefeels senselessly guilty. He ventured an engaging smile and noted withrelief that it failed either to terrify or to enrage the young woman.

  On the other hand, she said encouragingly: "I see."

  "And then I found that chap watching you--"

  That startled her. "How do you mean--watching me?"

  "Why--ah--that's what he seemed to be doing. He was lying at full lengthup there, half hidden--to all appearances watching you from behind ascreen of beach grass."

  "But--I don't understand--why should he have been watching me?"

  "I'm sure I don't know, if you don't."

  She shook her head: "You must be mistaken."

  "Daresay. I generally am when I jump at conclusions. Anyway, he didn'tlike it much when I called him out of his name. I gathered, in fact,that he was considerably put out. Silly, wasn't it?"

  "Rather!" she agreed gravely.

  For a moment or two they eyed one another in silence, Whitaker wonderingjust how much of a fool she was thinking him and dubiously consideringvarious expedients to ingratiate himself. She was really quite toocharming to be neglected, after so auspicious an inauguration of theiracquaintance. Momentarily he was becoming more convinced that she wasexceptional. Certain he was he had never met any woman quite likeher--not even the fair but false Miss Carstairs of whom he had oncefancied himself so hopelessly enamoured. Here he divined an uncommonintelligence conjoined with matchless loveliness. Testimony to theformer quality he acquired from eyes serenely violet and thoughtful. Asfor the latter, he reflected that few professional beauties could havestood, as this woman did, the acid test of that mercilessly brilliantmorning.

  "I don't seem to think of anything useful to say," he ventured. "Can youhelp me out? Unless you'd be interested to know that my name'sWhitaker--Hugh Whitaker--?"

  She acknowledged the information merely by a brief nod. "It seems tome," she said seriously, "that the pressing question is, what are yougoing to do about that ankle? Shall you be able to walk?"

  "Hard to say," he grumbled, a trifle dashed. He experimented gingerly,moving his foot this way and that and shutting his teeth on groans thatthe test would surely have evoked had he been alone. "'Fraid not. Still,one can try."

  "It isn't sprained?"

  "Oh, no--just badly wrenched. And, as I said, this is the second timewithin a week."

  With infinite pains and the aid of both hands and his sound foot, helifted himself and contrived to stand erect for an instant, then bore alittle weight on the hurt ankle--and blenched, paling visibly beneathhis ineradicable tan.

  "I don't suppose," he said with effort--"they grow--crutches--on thisneck of land?"

  And he was about to collapse again upon the sands when, without warning,he found the woman had moved to his side and caught his hand, almostbrusquely passing his arm across her shoulders, so that she received nolittle of his weight.

  "Oh, I say--!" he protested feebly.

  "Don't say anything," she replied shortly. "I'm very strong--quite ableto help you to the boat. Please don't consider me at all; just see if wecan't manage this way."

  "But I've no right to impose--"

  "Don't be silly! Please do as I say. Won't you try to walk?"

  He endeavoured to withdraw his arm, an effort rendered futile by hercool, firm grasp on his fingers.

  "Please!" she said--not altogether patiently.

  He eyed her askance. There was in this incredible situation a certainpiquancy, definitely provocative, transcending the claims his injurymade upon his interest. Last night for the first time he had seen thiswoman and from a distance had thought her desirable; now, within twelvehours, he found himself with an arm round her neck!

  He thought it a tremendously interesting neck, slender, not thin, andstraight and strong, a milk-white column from the frilled collar of herbathing-cloak to the shimmering tendrils that clustered behind her ears.Nor was the ear she presented to his inspection an everyday ear, lackingits individual allure. He considered that it owned its distinctivepersonality, not unworthy of any man's studious attention.

  He saw her face, of course, en profile: her head bowed, downcast lasheslong upon her cheeks, her mouth set in a mould of gravity, her browsseriously contracted--signifying preoccupation with the problem of themoment.

  And then suddenly she turned her head and intercepted his whole-heartedstare. For a thought wonder glimmered in the violet eyes; then theyflashed disconcertingly; finally they became utterly cold anddisdainful.

  "Well?" she demanded in a frigid voice.

  He looked away in complete confusion, and felt his face burning to thetemples.

  "I beg your pardon," he mumbled unhappily.

  He essayed to walk. Twenty feet and more of treacherous, dry, yieldingsand separated them from the flight of steps that ascended the bluff. Itproved no easy journey; and its difficulty was complicated by hisdetermination to spare the woman as much as he could. Gritting histeeth, he grinned and bore without a murmur until, the first stage ofthe journey accomplished, he was able to grasp a handrail at the bottomof the stairs and breathe devout thanks through the medium of a gasp.

  "Shall we rest a bit?" the woman asked, compassionate, ignoring now theimpertinence she had chosen to resent a few moments ago.

  "Think I can manage--thanks," he said, panting a little. "It'll beeasier now--going up. I shan't need help."

  He withdrew his arm, perhaps not without regret, but assuredly with acomforting sense of decent consideration for her, as well as with someslight and intrinsically masculine satisfaction in the knowledge that hewas overcoming her will and her resistance.

  "No--honestly!" he insisted. "These handrails make it easy."

  "But please be sure," she begged. "Don't take any chances. _I_ don'tmind...."

  "Let me demonstrate, then."

  The stairway was comfortably narrow; he had only to grasp a rail witheither hand, and half lift himself, half hop up step by step. In thismanner he accomplished the ascent in excellent, if hopelesslyungraceful, style. At the top he limped to a wooden seat beside one ofthe bath-houses and sat down with so much grim decision in his mannerthat it was evident to the woman the moment she rejoined him. But hemustered a smile to meet her look of concern, and shook his head.

  "Thus far and no farther."

  "Oh, but you must not be stubborn!"

  "I mean to be--horrid stubborn. In fact, I don't mind warning you thatthere's a famous strain of mule in the Whitaker make-up."

  She was, however, not to be diverted; and her fugitive frown bespokeimpatience, if he were any judge.

  "But seriously, you must--"

  "Believe me," he interrupted, "if I am to retain any vestige ofself-respect, I must no longer make a crutch of you."

  "But, really, I don't see why--!"

  "Need I remind you I am a man?" he argued lightly. "Even as you are avery charming woman...."

  The frown deepened while she conned this utterance over.

  "How do you mean me to interpret that?" she demanded, straightforward.

  "The intention was not uncomplimentary, perhaps," he said gravely;"though the clumsiness is incontestable. As for the rest of it--I'm nottrying to flirt with you, if that's what _you_ mean--yet. What I wishedto convey was simply my intention no longer to bear my masculine weightupon a woman--either you or any other woman."

  A smile contended momentarily with the frown, and triumphed brilliantly.

  "I beg your pardon, I'm sure. But do you mind telling me what you domean to do?"

  "No."

  "Well, then--?" The smile was deepening very pleasantly.

  "I mean to ask you," he said deliberately, taking heart of thisfavourable manifestation: "to whom am I indebted--?"

  To his consternation the smile vanished, as though a cloud had sailedbefore the sun. Doubt and something strongly resembling incredulityinformed her glance.

 
; "Do you mean to say you don't _know_?" she demanded after a moment.

  "Believe me, I've no least idea--"

  "But surely Mr. Ember must have told you?"

  "Ember seemed to be labouring under the misapprehension that the Fiskeplace was without a tenant."

  "Oh!"

  "And I'm sure he was sincere. Otherwise it's certain wild horsescouldn't have dragged him back to New York."

  "Oh!" Her tone was thoughtful. "So he has gone back to town?"

  "Business called him. At least such was the plausible excuse he advancedfor depriving himself of my exclusive society."

  "I see," she nodded--"I see...."

  "But aren't you going to tell me? Or ought I to prove my humanintelligence by assuming on logical grounds that you're Miss Fiske?"

  "If you please," she murmured absently, her intent gaze seeking thedistances of the sea.

  "Then that's settled," he pursued in accents of satisfaction. "You areMiss Fiske--Christian name at present unknown to deponent. I am oneWhitaker, as already deposed--baptized Hugh. And we are neighbours. Doyou know, I think this a very decent sort of a world after all?"

  "And still"--she returned to the charge--"you haven't told me what youmean to do, since you refuse my help."

  "I mean," he asserted cheerfully, "to sit here, aping Patience on amonument, until some kind-hearted person fetches me a stick or othersuitable piece of wood to serve as emergency staff. Then I shall makeshift to hobble to your motor-boat and thank you very kindly forferrying me home."

  "Very well," she said with a business-like air. "Now we understand oneanother, I'll see what I can find."

  Reviewing their surroundings with a swift and comprehensive glance, sheshook her head in dainty annoyance, stood for an instant plunged inspeculation, then, light-footed, darted from sight round the side of thebath-house.

  He waited, a tender nurse to his ankle, smiling vaguely at the benignsky.

  Presently she reappeared, dragging an eight-foot pole, which, fromcertain indications, seemed to have been formerly dedicated to theoffice of clothes-line prop.

  "Will this do?"

  Whitaker took it from her and weighed it with anxious judgment.

  "A trifle tall, even for me," he allowed. "Still...."

  He rose on one foot and tested the staff with his weight. "'Twill do,"he decided. "And thank you very much."

  But even with its aid, his progress toward the boat necessarily consumeda tedious time. It was impossible to favour the injured foot to anygreat extent. Between occasional halts for rest, Whitaker hobbled withgrim determination, suffering exquisitely but privately. The girlconsiderately schooled her pace to his, subjecting him to covertscrutiny when, as they moved on, his injury interested him exclusively.

  He made little or no attempt to converse while in motion; a spirit ofbravado alone, indeed, would have enabled him to pay attention toanything aside from the problem of the next step; and bravado was astranger to his cosmos then, if ever. So she had plenty of opportunityto make up her mind about him.

  If her eyes were a reliable index, she found him at least interesting.At times their expression was enigmatic beyond any rending. Again theyseemed openly perplexed. At all times they were warily regardful.

  Once she sighed quietly with a passing look of sadness of which he waswholly unaware....

  "Odd--about that fellow," he observed during a halt. "I was sure I knewhim, both times--last night as well as to-day."

  "Last night?" she queried with patent interest.

  "Oh, yes: I meant to tell you. He was prowling round thebungalow--Ember's, I mean--when I first saw him. I chased him off, losthim in the woods, and later picked him up again just at the edge of yourgrounds. That's why I thought it funny that he should be over here thismorning, shadowing you--as they say in detective stories."

  "No wonder!" she commented sympathetically.

  "And the oddest thing of all was that I should be so sure he wasDrummond--until I saw--"

  "Drummond!"

  "Friend of mine.... You don't by any chance know Drummond, do you?"

  "I've heard the name."

  "You must have. The papers were full of his case for a while. Mansupposed to have committed suicide--jumped off Washington Bridge a weekbefore he was to marry Sara Law, the actress?"

  "Why ... yes. Yes, I remember. But.... 'Supposed to have committedsuicide'--did you say?"

  He nodded. "He may have got away with it, at that. Only, I've goodreason to believe he didn't.... I may as well tell you: it's no secret,although only a few people know it: Ember saw Drummond, or thinks hedid, alive, in the flesh, a good half-hour after the time of hisreported suicide."

  "Really!" the girl commented in a stifled voice.

  "Oh, for all that, there's no proof Ember wasn't misled by an accidentalresemblance--no real proof--merely circumstantial evidence. Though formy part, I'm quite convinced Drummond still lives."

  "How very curious!" There was nothing more than civil but perfunctoryinterest in the comment. "Are you ready to go on?"

  And another time, when they were near the boat:

  "When do you expect Mr. Ember?" asked the girl.

  "To-night, probably. At least, he wired yesterday to say he'd be downto-night. But from what little I've seen of him, you can never be sureof Ember. He seems to lead the sedentary and uneventful life of a fleaon a hot griddle."

  "I shall be glad to see him," said the girl in what Whitaker thought acurious tone. "Please tell him, will you? Don't forget."

  "If that's the way you feel about him, I shall be tempted to wire himnot to come."

  "Just what do you mean by that?" asked the woman sharply, a glint ofindignation in her level, challenging stare.

  "Merely that your tone sounded a bit vindictive. I thought possibly youmight want to have it out with him, for the sin of permitting me toinfest this neck o' the woods."

  "Absurd!" she laughed, placated.

  When finally they came to the end of the dock, he paused, consideringthe three-foot drop to the deck of the motor-boat with a dubious lookthat but half expressed his consternation. It would be practicallyimpossible to lower himself without employing the painful member to anextent he didn't like to anticipate. He met the girl's inquiring glancewith one wholly rueful.

  "If it weren't low tide...." he explained, crest-fallen.

  She laughed lightly. "But, since it is low tide, you'll have to let mehelp you again."

  Cautiously lowering himself to a sitting position on the dock, feetoverhanging the boat, he nodded. "'Fraid so. Sorry to be a nuisance."

  "You're not a nuisance. You're merely masculine," the girl retorted,jumping lightly but surely to the cockpit.

  She turned and offered him a hand, eyes dancing with gay malice.

  Whitaker delayed, considering her gravely.

  "Meaning--?" he inquired pleasantly.

  "Like all men you must turn to a woman in the end--however brave yourstrut."

  "Oh, it's that way, is it? Thank you, but I fancy I can manage."

  And with the aid of the clothes-prop he did manage to make the descentwithout her hand and without disaster.

  "Pure _blague_!" the girl taunted.

  "That's French for I-think-I'm-smart-don't-I--isn't it?" he inquiredwith an innocent stare. "If so, the answer is: I do."

  Her lips and eyes were eloquent of laughter repressed.

  "But now?" she argued, sure of triumph. "You've got to admit youcouldn't do without me now!"

  "Oh, I can manage a motor, if that's what you mean," he retortedserenely; "though I confess there are a few new kinks to this one thatmight puzzle me a bit at the start. That chain-and-cogwheel affair toturn the flywheel with, for instance--that's a new one. The last time Iran a marine motor in this country we had to break our backs and runchances of breaking our arms as well, turning up by hand."

  The girl had gone forward, over the cabin roof, to cast off. Shereturned along the outboard, pushing the boat clear, then, jumping backin
to the cockpit, started the engine with a single, almost effortlessturn of the crank which Whitaker had mentioned, and took the wheel asthe boat swung droning away from the dock. Not until she had once ortwice advanced the spark and made other minor adjustments, did shereturn attention to her passenger.

  Then, in a casual voice, she inquired: "You've been out of the countryfor some time, I think you said?"

  "Almost six years on the other side of the world--got back only lastspring."

  "What," she asked, eyes averted, spying out the channel--"what does onedo on the other side of the world?"

  "This one knocked about, mostly, for his health's sake. That is, I wentaway expecting to die before long, was disappointed, got well and strongand--took to drifting.... I beg your pardon," he broke off hastily; "acivil answer to a civil question needn't necessarily be the history ofone's life."

  The girl put the wheel down slowly, swinging the boat upon a coursedirect to the landing-stage at Half-a-loaf Lodge.

  "But surely you didn't waste six years simply 'drifting'?"

  "Well, I did drift into a sort of business, after a bit--gold mining ina haphazard, happy-go-lucky fashion--did pretty well at it and came hometo astonish the natives."

  "Was it a success?"

  "Rather," he replied dryly.

  "I meant your plan to astonish the natives."

  "So did I."

  "You find things--New York--disappointing?" she analyzed his tone.

  "I find it overpowering--and lonely. Nobody sent a brass band to greetme at the dock; and all the people I used to know are either married anddevoted to brats, or divorced and devoted to bridge; and my game hasgone off so badly in six years that I don't belong any more."

  She smiled, shaping her scarlet lips deliciously. The soft, warm windwhipped stray strands of hair, like cords of gold, about her face. Hereyelids were half lowered against the intolerable splendour of the day.The waters of the bay, wind-blurred and dark, seemed a shield ofsapphire fashioned by nature solely to set off in clear relief herardent loveliness.

  Whitaker, noting how swiftly the mainland shores were disclosing thefiner details of their beauty, could have wished the bay ten times aswide.