about his tone at this moment that brought the argument to an end.

“All right,” said a sturdily-built old man, known to all at Rock Harbor as the Commodore. “Run your boat into Snug Harbor. Water’s deep there. You’ll tie up for the night?”

“Why, no.” It was Florence who started to speak, then stopped. They had meant to go on but she was weary from the day’s battle, and so, too, were her companions.

“A few hours’ rest,” she thought with a sigh. Then a question came to her, “What of the mysterious man who had insisted that they pass up the ‘Battle of Siskowit’?”

“There’s a boat coming in soon,” she heard the Commodore telling Dave. “A big pleasure yacht from Chicago. She’ll be tying up at the big dock here. That’s why—”

“Oh sure,” Dave broke in, “we’ll slide into Snug Harbor.” He had sensed Florence’s feelings. They would stay for a while at least. Florence heaved a sigh of relief.

“A large pleasure yacht!” she exclaimed. “That will be swell, just to look at.”

“Yes, to look at,” Dave laughed. “That’s as far as we’ll get.” He glanced down at his smoke-blackened clothes.

“But Commodore,” Florence exclaimed. “What about that man? Did he go on the Iroquois?”

“What man?” The commodore stared at her.

“A short, stout man with a dark face.”

“I don’t recollect seeing him,” was the reply. Florence stared at the commodore, but said no more. Somehow she had felt all along that this man did not intend to leave the island. But why? She could not answer.

“I believe he’s still here,” she thought. “Perhaps back there somewhere in the dark just now.” The thought gave her a sudden turn. “But why should I care?” she whispered almost fiercely, “Why should he wish to break us? ‘Break you’—yes, those were his very words.” Dave had said they were broke. That was not quite true. They were paying expenses. That was something. But if someone robbed them of their few passengers? What then?

“We’d have to leave the island,” she thought in sudden consternation.

CHAPTER III
BEAUTY AND A THREAT

Slipping away from the main dock, the Wanderer moved down the moonlit harbor to find a berth close to the brightly lighted lodge.

After a hasty meal of boiled potatoes and trout fried in deep fat, topped off with coffee and apple pie, Florence felt much better.

The little party went ashore. Dave and Rufus soon settled down in a dark corner to talk with fishermen about boats, motors and the latest catch of fish.

Florence stole off alone to wander down the narrow path that leads to the main dock. Hanging high, the moon shining between the birch trees painted patches of gold on the path. The strong smell of damp earth, mingled with the heavy odor of thimbleberries in bloom, greeted her at every turn. The cool damp of the night made her shiver with sheer joy.

“After all that stifling heat,” she whispered.

Arrived at a spot close to the dock, she turned to one side, climbed a steep slope, scrambled up the side of a great rock, then with hands clasped about her knees, sat looking away at the moonlit harbor that, stretching away and away in that darkness, seemed never to end.

“Glorious!” Suddenly she sprang to her feet to swing her arms wide and to drink in the cool air of night as some famished one fresh from the desert might drink cold water.

“How perfect to live here,” she breathed. “Never too hot nor too cold, and always, always, so beautiful!” And it was beautiful—jagged rocks here, primeval forest there and, far as eye could see, the deep, dark, mysterious waters of Superior.

Yet, even as she stood there, she saw, as in an evil dream, the threat. For, from the far-off shores of Siskowit just then a distant red gleam caught her eye.

“The fire!” she exclaimed breathlessly.

It was true, even as she watched, like the flash of a distant lighthouse, there came a flare that increased in intensity for an instant, then went black.

All too well she knew the meaning of that; those boys had worked hard, but had not entirely won their battle.

A moment passed, then came a second flash. And after that another.

Then, of a sudden, the girl started. She had spied a movement in the bushes close to her rock.

“Who—who’s there?” she demanded.

For the space of a second there came no answer. Then a voice said:

“Them is spruce trees. Dey go up in fire like dat—you have been dere—you have seen. Dey is burning yet. And dey will burn. Dey will burn de whole island. Oh, ya. Dese fires dey is bein’ set by somebody. Oh ya, dey iss.”

“Why?” the girl asked, almost in a whisper. “Why would anyone wish to set a forest fire on this beautiful island?”

There came no answer, only a movement in the brush. The speaker, whoever he might have been, was gone. A strange thrill ran up her spine.

But now the sound of distant music reached her ear, and, as she strained her eyes, she caught the gleam of a moving light. It was over the water.

“The yacht,” she thought. “It is coming.” Once again she settled herself comfortably on her rock to watch the boat’s light grow brighter and brighter, to catch the rise and fall of music that appeared to sway with the boat and at last to hear the deep, mysterious sound, the call of a boat in the night.

“How often,” she thought, “that haunting sound has come drifting in out of the night, the voice of a ship lost in the fog, or in distress on the rocks. But tonight,” once again she stood up to fling her arms wide, “Tonight it is a call of pure joy, a call to a grand good time on the deck of a beautiful yacht. But then I wonder,” she dropped back to her rock, to wonder some more.

It was true that once a boat docked anywhere on this friendly island, the cottagers and lodge guests swarmed aboard. They were always welcome. But she was not dressed for such an occasion. All her party clothes were on shore. She looked at her smoke-browned slacks, at her blouse torn at the sleeve, then murmured with a low laugh, “Invitation to the dance. But not for me. I’ll be a spectator. They won’t even know I am here.”

It was a large white yacht that at last tied up at the dock.

Sounding out in the silent night and across the dark, mysterious bay that lay beneath the stars, the music was enchanting.

The wail of violins, the tum-tum-tum of the bases, the organ-like roll of a piano accordion all seemed to blend with the beauty of the night.

“It’s glorious!” Florence whispered.

At that instant once again her eyes caught and were held by that faint red threat against the sky.

“The fire!” she exclaimed softly. “Must all this beauty vanish? No!” Her hands were tight clinched now. “No! It must not. At all cost we must save the island.”

But now there was a stir on the deck of the yacht. Something unusual was about to happen. What that was, for the moment, she could not tell.

She gave herself over to speculation regarding the people on that boat. Were they rich? Some of them must be. The yacht was magnificent in its burnished brass and polished mahogany.

“Not all are rich,” she told herself. “Some are guests of honor, famous people perhaps, artists, writers, musicians, dancers—”

Scarcely had she whispered this last word when the orchestra began the