Maybe that was it!  The Doc!  Of course, she loved him—­she had loved him ever since she had known him.  There was no secret about that—­she loved him fiercely, passionately, more than she loved anything else in the world, with all the love she was capable of—­more than he loved her—­he seemed to accept her, too often, so casually, so indifferently, so much as a matter of course.  He was so confidently and complacently sure of her—­and she was not at all sure of him.  She was only sure that he was quite right in being sure—­she couldn’t help loving him if she tried.

She had hardly seen anything of him since that night in the Roost before he had left for Needley—­and he hadn’t seemed to care much whether she did or not.  That talk about playing the game and taking no chances was all bosh—­there had been plenty of chances where it wouldn’t have hurt the game any.  Perhaps the little jolt she had given him last night, turning the tables a little, would wake him up a bit.  Perhaps, as the Flopper had said, he would come out to-night, and—­

“Helena!  Helena!”

Helena sat suddenly upright—­the noise of the surf muffled the sound of the voice, but that was probably Doc now—­she could hear footsteps running from the direction of the cottage.  Deliberately, Helena leaned back again against the rock, took out a cigarette and with no attempt to shade the flame of the match, rather to use it as a challenging beacon, held it to the cigarette—­but for the second time she flung both match and cigarette hurriedly away.  It wasn’t Madison at all—­it was only the Flopper.

“Say!” gasped the Flopper, blowing hard.  “Why can’t youse answer when yer called?  Wot you tryin’ ter do—­light a bonfire ter save yer voice?  Say, youse wanter get a wiggle on—­beat it—­quick!  Dey’re after you.”

“What?” cried Helena sharply, jumping to her feet.  “After me?  Who?  What do you mean?”

“I dunno,” said the Flopper with sudden imperturbability—­and evidently quite pleased with the agitation he had caused.  “He talks like his mouth was full, an’ he’s got a scare t’rown inter him so’s his teeth have got de jiggles.”

Helena caught the Flopper’s arm and shook him angrily.

“What are you talking about—­what is it?” she demanded fiercely.

“It’s de porter from de private car,” said the Flopper, wriggling away from her.  “He drove out here.  De lady’s on de toboggan—­sick.  She’s askin’ fer youse an’—­”

Helena waited for no more.  She raced to the cottage and around to the front.  A wagon was standing before the porch; the negro porter on the seat.

“What is it, Sam?” she called anxiously, as she came up.  “Is Mrs. Thornton seriously ill?”

“Yas—­yas’um, miss,” Sam answered excitedly.  “I done feel in mah bones she’s gwine to die.  Miss Harvey she done tole me to get a team an’ drive foh you-all like de debbil.”

Without waste of words, Helena clambered in beside him.