“There they go!” said Mr. Harland—­“They’re alongside!  See!—­those fellows are lowering the companion ladder—­there’s nothing supernatural about them!  Swinton’s all right—­look, he’s on board!”

We strained our eyes through the brilliant flare shed by the illuminated sails on the darkness and could see Mr. Swinton talking to a group of sailors.  One of them went away, but returned almost immediately, followed by a man clad in white yachting flannels, who, standing near one of the shining sails, caught some of the light on his own figure with undeniably becoming effect.  I was the first to perceive him, and as I looked, the impression came upon me that he was no stranger,—­I had seen him often before.  This sudden consciousness swiftly borne in upon me calmed all the previous tumult of my mind and I was no longer anxious as to the result of our possible acquaintance.  Catherine Harland pressed my arm excitedly.

“There he is!” she said—­“That must be the owner of the yacht.  He’s reading father’s letter.”

He was,—­we could see the little sheet of paper turning over in his hands.  And while we waited, wondering what would be his answer, the light on the sails of his vessel began to pale and die away,—­beam after beam of radiance slipped off as it were like drops of water, and before we could quite realise it there was darkness where all had lately been so bright; and the canvas was hauled down.  With the quenching of that intense brilliancy we lost sight of the human figures on deck and could not imagine what was to happen next.  The dark shore looked darker than ever,—­the outline of the yacht was now truly spectral, like a ship of black cobweb against the moon, and we looked questioningly at each other in silence.  Then Mr. Harland spoke in a low tone.

“The boat is coming back,”—­he said,—­“I hear the oars.”

I leaned over the side of our vessel and tried to see through the gloom.  How still the water was!—­not a ripple disturbed its surface.  But there were strange gleams of wandering light in its depths like dropped jewels lost on sands far below.  The regular dip of oars sounded nearer and nearer.  My heart was beating with painful quickness,—­I could not understand the strange feeling that overpowered me.  I felt as if my very soul were going out of my body to meet that oncoming boat which was cleaving its way through the darkness.  Another brief interval and then we saw it shoot out into a patch of moonlight—­we could perceive Mr. Swinton seated in the stern with another figure beside him—­that of a man who stood up as he neared our yacht and lifted his cap with an easy gesture of salutation, and then as the boat came alongside, caught at the guide rope and sprang lightly on the first step of the companion ladder.

“Why, he’s actually come over to us himself!” ejaculated Mr. Harland,—­and he hurried to the gangway just in time to receive the visitor as he stepped on deck.