herself to gaze at the tall office buildings which whizzed by on either side as the cab rattled over the rough pavement. A short drive carried her within sight of the bay and only then did she lean forward in her seat to obtain a better view.

The taxi halted near the wharf and the driver swung open the car door. Madge alighted and paid her fare.

“Can you tell me which yacht is The Flora?” she inquired.

“She lies yonder.” The driver indicated a vessel anchored out some distance in the bay.

At sight of the trim little yacht with its gay flags fluttering in the off shore breeze, Madge’s spirits arose. It was good to be near the water again. And a two weeks’ sailing trip would be such glorious fun!

She looked about for someone to row her out to the yacht. The wharf appeared deserted, for the hour approached noon. After walking a short distance along the water front, her attention was attracted to a man who sat hunched over in a boat that was tied to the dock. His lunch was spread out on the seat before him, but his real interest seemed to center upon something out in the bay. Following his gaze, Madge saw that he was intently watching The Flora.

“He must have a boat to rent,” she reasoned. “I’ll see if I can bargain with him.”

She approached closer and addressed him. Startled, the man turned sharply and stared.

Instantly, Madge regretted that she had spoken for the boatman was not at all to her liking. He was dressed in dirty white duck trousers and a grimy shirt, but it was his face rather than his clothing that repulsed her. She saw at once that he was of foreign extraction, though she could not have guessed his nationality. His complexion was extremely dark and his straight black hair had not been cut in many weeks. His eyes bore into her with disconcerting intensity.

“I beg your pardon, do you have a boat to rent?” she questioned.

He continued to stare until she thought he would never reply. Then touching his cap, he muttered something, speaking with such an accent that she could scarcely make it out.

“Three dolla’ an hour,” he added indifferently.

“I didn’t want to buy the boat,” Madge smiled. “Perhaps I failed to understand correctly. You said—”

“Three dolla’ an hour,” he repeated, scowling darkly.

“Why, that’s unreasonable. At my Uncle George’s fishing lodge in Canada we rent out boats for all day at less than that.”

The boatman shrugged indifferently and Madge thought for an instant that an expression of relief actually crossed his face.

“That my price,” he insisted. “Maybe you find another boat.”

Madge looked up and down shore but there was no other boat to be had. She realized full well that she was being outrageously over-charged, but she was eager to reach the Burnett yacht without delay.

“I’ll rent your boat,” she decided. “It won’t take more than half an hour to get where I’m going.”

“Three dolla’ minimum charge,” the boatman announced impressively.

“Are you trying to discourage me?” Madge demanded suspiciously. “I don’t believe you’re very anxious to rent your boat.” Without giving him an opportunity to reply, she took a small roll of bills from her pocketbook and handed him three. “Here’s your pay in advance.”

He accepted the money with obvious unwillingness and lifted her suitcase into the boat. She seated herself and he cast off the painter.

“Take me to The Flora,” she directed. “See, it’s that yacht this side of the buoy.”

Madge was unprepared for the effect her words produced upon the man. He turned quickly, his eyes smoldering. An expression she could not fathom, flashed over his face.

“I not take you there!” he uttered vehemently, thrusting the three bills rudely toward her. “Here, take your money! You mus’ get another boat!”

CHAPTER II
An Unwilling Boatman

Madge was taken aback at the boatman’s unexpected announcement but she had no intention of being diverted from her original plan. His very reluctance only whetted her determination to hold him to his bargain.

“Keep the money,” she insisted. “You made the agreement and you must stand by it. Why do you object to taking me to the Burnett yacht?”

The man muttered something about “a bad omen” which she failed to understand.

“Come, don’t try to tell me there’s any silly superstition about that boat,” she declared impatiently. “Will you take me there or must I call the authorities?”

At mention of the police, the man grew even more agitated. He looked first toward The Flora and then at Madge. After a moment’s indecision, he picked up the oars and without a word, rowed away from the dock.

It struck Madge that she might be doing a foolish thing to trust herself to a strange boatman, particularly one who acted so queerly. However, she felt there was no real danger as long as they were within sight of other boats anchored in the bay.

Madge had never been one to forego an adventure for the sake of caution. Perhaps her life in the north woods had taught her resourcefulness and courage. At any rate, since the death of her mother and the strange disappearance of her father, she had learned to look out for herself. Since childhood she had made her home with her Uncle George and Aunt Maude Brady, and many pleasant summers had been spent at their fishing lodge on Loon Lake, Canada. There she had made friends with Anne Fairaday, an orphan living at Stewart Island. This acquaintance had plunged her into an exciting hunt for a hidden paper, the story of which is related in the first volume of the Madge Sterling series, entitled, “The Missing Formula.”

At Loon Lake she had met Jack French, a handsome young forest ranger, who, in taking leave of her on the eve of her trip to Cheltham Bay, had warned her that before the summer ended she might see him again.

Madge had been elated at the thought of spending a vacation aboard the Burnett yacht. Enid was the daughter of a noted sportsman and collector of antiques, and since the death of her mother had been permitted to grow up much as she pleased. Notwithstanding, she was a cheerful, friendly sort of girl, not in the least spoiled.

During the tedious trip across the bay, Madge had ample opportunity to study the face of her boatman. He avoided her glance, yet when she looked away, she could feel his eyes upon her.

“He must be a Hindu,” she thought uncomfortably. “At least, I’m sure he’s from India.”

Although the man was dressed in cheap, rough clothing, he did not appear to be a suitable type for the occupation he had chosen. His hands were not those of one who worked at hard labor. Madge noticed too that he wore an expensive looking jade pin, fastened over his breast.

“There’s something wrong with the picture,” she meditated. “He must have seen better days—or else he stole that pin!”

She wished anew that she was safely aboard The Flora. The yacht was still a considerable distance away, too far for her to see anyone on deck.

“Why doesn’t he row faster?” she asked herself impatiently. “We’ll never get there at this rate.”

At her suggestion to the effect, the boatman only stared uncomprehendingly until she gave up trying to make him understand.

“He knows what I want but he’s stubborn,” she decided. “What ails him anyway? I’m certainly paying him enough for his work.”

She longed to take