“They?  Who?”

“Government agents, probably.  They were after Pruyn.”

“How horrible!  And—­and Mrs. Pruyn.  Where was she?”

“There isn’t any Mrs. Pruyn.  There never was.”

“But the Dutch permit!  It was for Dr. Pruyn and his wife.”

“Sherwen misread the form.  So did I. It read for Dr. Pruyn and a woman.  He hoped to take her to Curacao and complete his experiment.”

“That’s what he meant when he spoke of being lawless, and I’ve been thinking the basest things of him for it!” The girl, dazed by a flash of complete enlightenment, caught at Carroll’s arm with beseeching hands.  “Where is he, Fitz?”

“On his way down the mountain.  Perhaps down here by now.”

“He’s coming to the ship?” she asked.

“No; he doesn’t expect to see you again.  He was coming down to make sure that we got off safely.”

“Fitz, dear Fitz, I must see him!”

“Miss Polly,” he said miserably, “I’ll do anything I can.”

“Oh, poor Fitz!” she cried pityingly, her eyes filling with tears.  “I wish for your sake it wasn’t so.  And you have been so splendid about it!”

“I’ve tried to make amends, and play fair.  It hasn’t been easy.  Shall I go back and look for him?  It’s a small town, and I can find him.”

“Yes.  I’ll write a note.  No; I won’t.  Never mind.  I’ll manage it.  Fitz, go and rest.  You’re worn out,” she said gently.

Back into her stateroom went Miss Polly.  From that time forth no man saw her nor woman, either, except perhaps her maid, and maids are dark and discreet persons on occasion.  If this particular one kept her own counsel when she saw a trim but tremulous figure drop lightly over the starboard rail of the Polly far forward, pick up a small traveling-bag from the pier, step behind the opportune screen of a load of coffee on a flat car, and reappear to view only as a momentary swish of skirt far away at the shore end; if this same maid told Mr. Thatcher Brewster, half an hour later, that Miss Polly was asleep in her stateroom, and begged that she be disturbed on no account, as she was utterly worn out, who shall blame her for her silence on the one occasion or her speech on the other?  She was but obeying, albeit with tearful misgivings, duly constituted authority.

Eight o’clock struck on the bell of the little Protestant mission church on the tiny plaza; struck and was welcomed by the echoes, and passed along to eventual silence.  Within two minutes after, there was a special stir and movement on the pier, a corresponding stir and movement on board the trim craft, a swishing of great ropes, and a tooting of whistles.  White foam churned astern of her.  A comic-supplement-looking pelican on a buoy off to port flapped her a fantastic farewell.  The blockade-defying yacht Polly was off for blue waters and the freedom of the seas.

On the shore, feeling woefully helpless and alone, she who had been the jewel and joy of the Polly bit her lips and closed her eyes, in a tremulous struggle against the dismal fear:—­