class="pnext">The jingling of a bell from across the water interrupted her. Then she heard the churning of a propeller, and the dark outline of the yacht began to move again.

"Ahoy!" screamed Miss Chalmers.

"Never mind!" roared her boatman.

She whirled upon him furiously.

"How could you! How dare you! Are you mad? Do you think—"

She broke off and sent another hail in the direction of the yacht. But that craft had disappeared in the night, and there was no answering call.

She looked down upon the kneeling figure, a tempest of wrath upon her lips. The boatman was fussing aimlessly with a wrench.

Miss Chalmers fought for self-control. She had a passionate desire to slay, but she lacked a convenient means. Besides, she could not see that homicide would speed her way to Witherbee's Island. And even in her stormiest moments, Miss Chalmers never quite abandoned her grip on things as they were and problems that had to be met.

But she was bewildered, even alarmed. She did not fear the consequences, however unpleasant, of an all-night drift on the river. It was the boatman who furnished cause for dismay. She wondered if he was insane.

"I would like to know," she said, struggling to quiet her voice, "why you did that."

"Did what?"

"Sent that yacht away."

"Reasons," he responded briefly.

"Reasons! What reasons?"

His only answer was a shrug.

"I demand to be told why you sent those people away."

There was another hunch of his shoulders.

"Dou you mean deliberately to keep me out here in this boat all night?"

"Oh, not at all!" he said easily.

"Then why did you—"

"Sorry. Can't explain."

Miss Chalmers sat down with a gasp and tried to consider the situation.

It was past midnight. The launch was slowly drifting down-stream in a steadily broadening channel. The boatman was unable to operate his engine, and had refused an offer of help. He was probably mad. She wondered if he was dangerous.

For several minutes she sat in silence, watching him as he fussed about the machinery in an amateurish fashion. Then she gritted her teeth and aroused herself to action.

"Get out of the way!" she commanded.

He moved to make a place for her, and once more she knelt on the greasy flooring. Very patiently, considering the state of her emotions, Miss Chalmers went over the engine again.

She shook her head, puzzled. Nothing seemed to be wrong with it. Suddenly she turned to him.

"Where's your gas-tank?" she demanded.

"Forward. But you needn't look there. There's plenty. I filled it—"

She seized the lantern and began climbing over the trunks; she was not going to take the word of an incompetent. Her white gown suffered dismally as she scrambled in the direction of the gasoline-tank, and she had a sinking sensation that the spectacle afforded to the boatman was lacking in dignity. But she was determined, and tried to comfort herself with the thought that it was quite dark.

She located the tank and unscrewed the cap. The aperture was large enough to admit her hand and arm; in she plunged them resolutely. The tank was nearly full. She replaced the cap and crawled aft again.

Then the boatman did a strangely considerate thing. He turned his back and pretended to be doing something to the engine, while Miss Chalmers slipped down from the trunks and shook her skirt about her ankles. She made a mental note of it.

"Where does your gas-line run?" she asked briskly.

"Gas-line?"

"Oh, the pipe that connects the tank with the engine!" she cried in exasperation. "Don't you know anything?"

The boatman grinned cheerfully.

"I'm learning," he said. "It runs along under the gunwale on the port side, I think. I never paid much attention, but—"

"Hold the lantern here," she ordered, now on her hands and knees, with her head poked under the gunwale.

The boatman obeyed.

"Now move forward," she directed.

He moved the lantern as she directed, while Miss Chalmers explored the gas-line, beginning at the carbureter.

Presently they arrived at an obstacle in the shape of the passenger's baggage.

"Move that grip," was her next order.

He yanked the rescued bag from its place of safety, and she craned her head into the opening. A few seconds later she withdrew it and bestowed upon the boatman a look of unutterable contempt.

"Get down here," she said.

He knelt beside her.

"Poke your head in there."

He obeyed. Miss Chalmers also poked her head in, so that wisps of her brown hair brushed his unshaven cheeks.

"Now, do you see that little handle there?" she inquired.

"Yes, ma'am."

The boatman's voice was meek.

"Do you know what it is?"

"No, ma'am."

"Well, it's the cut-off in the gas-line."

"Never noticed it before," he commented blandly.

"And it's cut off now," continued Miss Chalmers.

A gentle swell rocked the boat, and their heads bobbed together. She paid no attention.

"You cut it off when you jammed my grip under there," she said tersely.

"There! Now I've turned it on again. The idea is that a gasoline-engine always runs better when supplied with gas. Now spin that fly-wheel!"

The boatman went aft and obeyed. The engine started joyfully. The launch moved. Miss Chalmers resumed her seat and surveyed her costume by the yellow light of the lantern.

"Now you take me to Witherbee's Island as quickly as you know how—if you do know," she observed.

The boatman made no answer. When the launch had obtained headway he altered the course, and presently they were passing through a series of narrow channels, between darkened islands. He seemed to know where he was going, but Miss Chalmers had no confidence in him. She was merely relieved to observe that they were going somewhere. Presently they headed in toward a wooded island that was dark, save for a tiny light that flickered at the water's edge. As they neared the shore the boatman made his first remark since the engine had resumed wheezing.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to know—"

"I haven't run a six-cylinder car for nothing,"