Then I asked about shelter for the night.  This was a “jumping-off” place, said the agent, with barracks and shanties for a construction-gang; there were saloons, and what was called a hotel, but it wouldn’t do for a lady.  I pleaded that I was not fastidious—­being anxious to nullify the effect which the name van Tuiver had produced.  But the agent would have it that the place was unfit for even a Western farmer’s wife; and as I was not anxious to take the chance of being blown overboard in the darkness, I spent the night on one of the benches in the station.  I lay, listening to the incredible clamour of wind and waves, feeling the building quiver, and wondering if each gust might not blow it away.

I was out at dawn, the force of the wind having abated somewhat by that time.  I saw before me a waste of angry foam-strewn water, with no sign of any craft upon it.  Late in the morning came the big steamer which ran to Key West, in connection with the railroad; it made a difficult landing, and I interviewed the captain, with the idea of bribing him to take me to my destination.  But he had his schedule, which neither storms nor the name of van Tuiver could alter.  Besides, he pointed out, he could not land me at their place, as his vessel drew too much water to get anywhere near; and if he landed me elsewhere, I should be no better off, “If your friends are expecting you, they’ll come here,” he said, “and their launch can travel when nothing else can.”

To pass the time I went to inspect the viaduct of the railway-to-be.  The first stretch was completed, a long series of concrete arches, running out, apparently, into the open sea.  It was one of the engineering wonders of the world, but I fear I did not appreciate it.  Towards mid-afternoon I made out a speck of a boat over the water, and my friend, the station-agent, remarked, “There’s your launch.”

I expressed my amazement that they should have ventured out in such weather.  I had had in mind the kind of tiny open craft that one hears making day and night hideous at summer-resorts; but when the “Merman” drew near, I realized afresh what it was to be the guest of a multi-millionaire.  She was about fifty feet long, a vision of polished brass and shining, new-varnished cedar.  She rammed her shoulder into the waves and flung them contemptuously to one side; her cabin was tight, dry as the saloon of a liner.

Three men emerged on deck to assist in the difficult process of making a landing.  One of them sprang to the dock, and confronting me, inquired if I was Mrs. Abbott.  He explained that they had set out to meet me the previous afternoon, but had had to take refuge behind one of the keys.

“How is Mrs. van Tuiver?” I asked, quickly.

“She is well.”

“I don’t suppose—­the baby——­” I hinted.

“No, ma’am, not yet,” said the man; and after that I felt interested in what he had to say about the storm and its effects.  We could return at once, it seemed, if I did not mind being pitched about.