“I hired Roke to run this key for me and keep the conchs and the coons at work.  But I’ve got a pretty straight tip that, as soon as my back is turned, he cuts indoors and spends most of his day whanging at that disreputable old violin of his.  And when Rodney Hade comes over here.  I can’t get a lick of work out of Roke, for love or money.  Hade is one of the best amateur violinists in America, and he’s daft on playing.  He drops in here. every now and then—­he has an interest with me in the groves—­and as soon as he catches sight of Roke’s violin. he starts playing it.  That means no more work out of Roke till Hade chooses to stop.  He just stands, with his mouth wide open, hypnotized.  Can’t drag him away for a second.  Hey.  Roke?”

Roke had ceased nursing his wrist and had listened with sheepish amusement to his employer’s guying.  But at this question, he made answer: 

“I’m here now.”

He jerked the thumb of his uninjured hand toward a spic-and-span launch which lay moored between two sodden scows, and then nodded in the direction of the corrugated iron hut among the trees.

Listening—­though the wind set the wrong way for it—­Brice could hear faintly the strains of a violin. played ever so softly and with a golden wealth of sweetness.  Even at that distance, by listening closely, he could make out a phrase or so of Dvorak’s “Hiawatha” music from the “New World Symphony.”  Milo’s loud laugh broke in on his audition and on the suddenly rapt look upon Roke’s bruised face.

“Come along!” said Standish, leading the way toward the house.  “Music’s a fine thing, I’m told.  But it doesn’t spray a grapefruit orchard or keep the scale off of mango trees.  Come up to the house.  I want to show you over the island and have a chat with you about the job I have in mind.”

As Milo strode on the two others fell in step behind him.  Brice lowered his voice and said to the sulking Roke: 

“That collie belongs to Mr. Standish.  I did you a good turn it seems by keeping you from stealing him.  You’d have been in a worse fix than you are now, if Mr. Standish had come over here to-day and found him on the island.”

Roke did not deign to reply, but moved a little farther from the speaker.

“At this rate,” said Brice pleasantly. “you and I are likely to have a jolly time together, out here.  I can’ imagine a merrier chum for a desert island visit.  I only hope I won’t neglect my work chatting with you all day.”

Roke eyed him obliquely as he plodded on, and his battered lip-corner lifted a little in what looked like a beast snarl.  But he said nothing.

Then they were at the shallow porch of the hut and Milo Standish had thrown open its iron door letting out a gush of golden melody from the violin.  At his hail. the music ceased.  And Rodney Hade, fiddle in hand, appeared in the doorway.

“You’re late,” said the violinist, speaking to Milo with that ever-smiling suavity which Gavin recalled from the night before, and ignoring Gavin entirely “You’ve kept me waiting.”