If this were the same boat—if its steersman chanced to be Milo Standish crossing to the key to learn if his murderplot had yet culminated—so much the better! Man to man, there between sea and sky in the gathering gloom, they could settle the account once and for all.
Perhaps Standish had recognized him. Perhaps he merely took him for some capsized fisherman. In either event, a swimming man is the most utterly defenseless of all creatures against attack from land or from boat. And Gavin was not minded to let Standish finish his work with boat-hook or with oar. If he and his foe were to meet it should be on even terms.
The boat had switched off power and was coming to a standstill. Gavin dived. He swam clean under the craft, lengthwise, coming up at its stern and farthest from that indistinct figure in the prow.
As he rose to the surface he caught with both hands the narrow overhang of the stern, and with a mighty heave he hoisted himself hip-high out of the water.
Thence it was the work of a bare two seconds for him to swing himself over the stern and to land on all fours in the bottom of the boat. The narrow craft careened dangerously under such treatment. But she righted herself, and by the time he had fairly landed upon the cleated bottom. Brice was on his feet and making for the prow. He was ready now for any emergency and could meet his adversary on equal terms.
"Mr. Brice!" called the boat's other occupant, springing up, her sweet voice trembling and almost tearful. "Oh, thank God you're safe! I was so frightened!"
"Miss Standish!" sputtered Gavin, aghast. "Miss Standish!"
For a moment they stood staring at each other through the darkness, wordless, breathing hard. Their quick breath and the trickling of fifty runnels of water from Gavin's drenched clothes into the bottom of the once-tidy boat alone broke the tense stillness of sky and bay. Then:
"You're safe? You're not harmed?" panted the girl.
And the words brought back with a rush to Gavin Brice all he had been through.