Millie Bushell landed, her dripping clothes clinging round her. Victor was shivering, for the evening had turned chilly. Uncle Van had a bit of rope from the boat-shed in his hand, and a doubtful smile on his face.
“We’d best get Miss Bushel home,” he suggested, and they started in gloomy procession. Charlie, in remorse, gave Millie his arm.
“Oh, how could you?” she murmured piteously. She was cold, she was wet, and she was sure that she looked frightful.
I—I didn’t do it on purpose, “Charlie blurted out eagerly.
“On purpose! Well, I suppose not,” she exclaimed, bewildered. Charlie flushed. Victor shot a swift glance at him.
Half-way home they met Mrs. Marland and the whole affair had to be explained to her. Charlie essayed the task.
“Still, I don’t see how you managed to upset the canoe,” observed Mrs. Marland.
“No more do I,” said Victor Sutton. Charlie gave it up.
“I’m so sorry, Millie,” he whispered. “You must try to forgive me.”
So, once again, the coast was left clear for Agatha Merceron, if she came that night. But, whether she did or not, the other Agatha came no more, and Charlie’s great resolve went unfulfilled. Yet the next evening he went: alone to the temple, and he found, lying on the floor, a little handkerchief trimmed with lace and embroidered with the name of “Agatha.” This he put in his pocket, thanking heaven that his desperate manoeuvre had kept the shrine inviolate the day before.