But she did not have to.  For, at that moment, the miracle of wisdom beside her sat up and pointed to the wet newspaper lying on the sand at her feet.

“Has my happiness affected my wits?” he demanded.  “Or does salt water bring on delusions?  Aren’t those my initials?”

He was pointing to a paragraph in the “Personals” column of the New York paper.  This, being on one of the inner pages, had remained comparatively dry and could be read.  The particular “Personal” to which he pointed was this: 

“R.  A. B.”  Wherever you are.  This is to certify that I hereby acknowledge that you have been absolutely correct in the A. D. matter; witness news elsewhere.  I was a fool, and I apologize publicly.  Incidentally I need a head like yours in my business.  Come back.  Partnership awaiting you.  Come back; and marry anybody or nobody as you see fit.

“Father.”

CHAPTER XVII

WOMAN-HATERS

“But what,” asked Ruth, as they entered the bungalow together, “has happened to Mr. Atkins, do you think?  You say he went away yesterday noon and you haven’t seen him or even heard from him since.  I should think he would be afraid to leave the lights for so long a time.  Has he ever done it before?”

“No.  And I’m certain he would not have done it this time of his own accord.  If he could have gotten back last night he would, storm or no storm.”

“But last night was pretty bad.  And,” quite seriously, “of course he knew that you were here, and so everything would be all right.”

“Oh, certainly,” with sarcasm, “he would know that, of course.  So long as I am on deck, why come back at all?  I’m afraid Atkins doesn’t share your faith in my transcendent ability, dear.”

“Well,” Miss Graham tossed her head, “I imagine he knew he could trust you to attend to his old lighthouses.”

“Perhaps.  If so, his faith has developed wonderfully.  He never has trusted me even to light the lanterns.  No, I’m afraid something has happened—­some accident.  If the telephone was in working order I could soon find out.  As it is, I can only wait and try not to worry.  By the way, is your housekeeper—­Mrs. What’s-her-name—­all serene after her wet afternoon?  When did she return?”

“She hasn’t returned.  I expected her last evening—­she said she would be back before dark—­but she didn’t come.  That didn’t trouble me; the storm was so severe that I suppose she stayed in the village overnight.”

“So you were alone all through the gale.  I wondered if you were; I was tremendously anxious about you.  And you weren’t afraid?  Did you sleep?”

“Not much.  You see,” she smiled oddly, “I received a letter before I retired, and it was such an important—­and surprising—­communication that I couldn’t go to sleep at once.”

“A letter?  A letter last night?  Who—­What?  You don’t mean my letter?  The one I put under your door?  You didn’t get that last night!”