“She’s a deal too pert,” observed Mrs. Peck to the saucepan she was stirring.  “It’s my belief now that that Mr. Knight’s been putting ideas into her head.  She’s getting wild; that’s what she is.”

Knowing Rufus, she expected no response, and for several seconds none came.

Then to her surprise she heard his voice, deep and sonorous as the bell-buoy that was moored by the Spear Point Reef.

“Maybe she’d tame,” he said.

And “Goodness gracious unto me!” said Mrs. Peck, as she lifted her saucepan off the fire.

CHAPTER IV

THE RISING TIDE

A long dazzling pathway of moonlight stretched over the sea, starting from the horizon, ending at the great jutting promontory of the Spear Point.  The moon was yet three nights from the full.  The tide was rising, but it would not be high for another two hours.

The breakers ran in, one behind the other, foaming over the hidden rocks, splashing wildly against the grim wall of granite that stood sharp-edged to withstand them.  It was curved like a scimitar, that rock, and within its curve there slept, when the tide was low, a pool.  When the tide rose the waters raged and thundered all around the rock, but when it sank again the still, deep pool remained, unruffled as a mountain tarn and as full of mystery.

Over a tumble of lesser rocks that bounded the pool to shoreward the wary might find a path to the Spear Point Caves; but the path was difficult, and there were few who had ever attempted it.  For the quicksand lay like a golden barrier between the outer beach and the rocks that led thither.

It was an awesome spot.  Many a splinter of wreckage had been tossed in over the Spear Point as though flung in sport from a giant hand.  And when the water was high there came a hollow groaning from the inner caves as though imprisoned spirits languished there.

But on that night of magic moonlight the only sound was the murmurous splash of the rising waves as they met the first grim rocks of the Point.  Presently they would dash in thunder round the granite blade, and the sleeping pool would be turned to a smother of foam.

On the edge of the pool a woman’s figure clad in white stood balanced with outstretched arms.  So still was the water, so splendid the moonlight, that the whole of her light form was mirrored there—­a perfect image of nymph-like grace.  She sang a soft, low, trilling song like the song of a blackbird awaking to the dawn.

“By Jupiter!” Knight murmured to himself.  “If I could get her only once—­only once—­as—­she—­is!”

The gleam of the hunter was in his look.  He stood on the rocks some yards away from her, gazing with eyes half-shut.

Suddenly she turned herself, and across the intervening space her voice came to him, half-mocking, half-alluring, “Have you found your inspiration yet?”