An hour passed.  Dark of the Pit descended, shrouding the lake with a sable curtain, close-folded, impenetrable.  The dead stillness of the day vanished before a hot land breeze, and Stella, as she felt the launch drift, knew by her experience on the lake that they were moving offshore.  Presently this was confirmed, for out of the black wall on the west, from which the night wind brought stifling puffs of smoke, there lifted a yellow effulgence that grew to a red glare as the boat drifted out.  Soon that red glare was a glowing line that rose and fell, dipping and rising and wavering along a two-mile stretch, a fiery surf beating against the forest.

Down in the engine room Barlow finally located the trouble, and the motor took up its labors, spinning with a rhythmic chatter of valves.  The man came up into the pilot house, wiping the sweat from his grimy face.

“Gee, I’m sorry, Mrs. Fyfe,” he said.  “A gas-engine man would ‘a’ fixed that in five minutes.  Took me two hours to find out what was wrong.  It’ll be a heck of a job to fetch Cougar Bay now.”

But by luck Barlow made his way back, blundering fairly into the landing at the foot of the path that led to the bungalow, as if the cruiser knew the way to her old berth.  And as he reached the float, the front windows on the hillock broke out yellow, pale blurs in the smoky night.

“Well, say,” Barlow pointed.  “I bet a nickel Jack’s home.  See?  Nobody but him would be in the house.”

“I’ll go up,” Stella said.

“All right, I guess you know the path better’n I do,” Barlow said.  “I’ll take the Bug around into the bay.”

Stella ran up the path.  She halted halfway up the steps and leaned against the rail to catch her breath.  Then she went on.  Her step was noiseless, for tucked in behind a cushion aboard the Waterbug she had found an old pair of her own shoes, rubber-soled, and she had put them on to ease the ache in her feet born of thirty-six hours’ encasement in leather.  She gained the door without a sound.  It was wide open, and in the middle of the big room Jack Fyfe stood with hands thrust deep in his pockets, staring absently at the floor.

She took a step or two inside.  Fyfe did not hear her; he did not look up.

“Jack.”

He gave ever so slight a start, glanced up, stood with head thrown back a little.  But he did not move, or answer, and Stella, looking at him, seeing the flame that glowed in his eyes, could not speak.  Something seemed to choke her, something that was a strange compound of relief and bewilderment and a slow wonder at herself,—­at the queer, unsteady pounding of her heart.

“How did you get way up here?” he asked at last.

“Linda wired last night that Charlie was hurt.  I got a machine to the Springs.  Then Barlow came down this afternoon looking for you.  He said you’d been missing for two days.  So I—­I—­”

She broke off.  Fyfe was walking toward her with that peculiar, lightfooted step of his, a queer, tense look on his face.