He planned to beach her on the strip of sand at the bottom of the mangrove swamp, and to make his way to the Standish house through the hidden path whose existence Milo had that day poohpoohed.  He trusted to luck and to justice to enable him to find the man he sought when once he should reach the house.

His only drawback was the fear lest he encounter Claire as well.  In his present wrathful frame of mind he had no wish to see or speak with her, and he hoped that she might not mar by her presence his encounter with her brother.

Between two keys wallowed his chugging boat and into a stretch of clear water beyond.  Then, skirting a low-lying reef, Gavin headed direct toward the distant patch of yellowish beach which was his objective.

The sun’s upper edge was sinking below the flat skyline.  Mauve shadows swept over the aquamarine expanse of rippling water.  The horizon was dyed a blood-red which was merging into ashes of roses.  On golden Mashta played the last level rays of the dying sun, caressing the wondrous edifice as though they loved it.  The subtropical night was rushing down upon the smiling world, and, as ever, it was descending without the long sweet interval of twilight that northern lands know.

Gavin put the tub to top speed as the last visible obstacle was left behind.  Clear water lay between him and the beach.  And he was impatient to step on land.  Under the fresh impetus the rolling craft panted and wheezed and made her way through the ripples at a really creditable pace.

As the shadows thickened Brice half-arose in his seat to get a better glimpse of a little motorboat which had just sprung into view from around the mangrove-covered headland that cut off the view of Standish’s mainland dock.  The boat apparently had put off from that pier. and was making rapid speed out into the bay almost directly toward him.  He could descry a figure sitting in the steersman’s seat.  But by that ebbing light. he could discern only its blurred outline.

Before Gavin could resume his seat he was flung forward upon his face in the bottom of his scow.  The jar of the tumble knocked him breathless.  And as he scrambled up on hands and knees he saw what had happened.

Foolish is the boatman who runs at full speed in some of the southwestern reaches of Biscayne Bay—­especially at dusk —­without up-to-date chart or a perfect knowledge of the bay’s tricky soundings.  For the coral worm is tireless, and the making of new reefs is without end.

The fast-driven launch had run, bow-on, into a tooth of coral barely ten inches under the surface of the smooth water.  And, what with her impetus and the half-rotted condition of her hull, she struck with such force as to rip a hole in her forward quarter, wide enough to stick a derby hat through.

In rushed the water, filling her in an incredibly short time.  Settling by the head under the weight of this inpouring flood she toppled off the tooth of reef and slid free.  Then with a wallowing dignity she proceeded to sink.