Hinter knit his brows. "I'm afraid they are," he answered. "But my friends are their friends, you see. There is only one other person besides yourself and myself who can do what you are doing now, though."
She looked up quickly. "And may I ask who that is?"
"Certainly; it's young Billy Wilson. You know—the lad who is always roaming the woods."
"Yes," she said softly. "I know him perhaps better than most folks do. I am not surprised that he can handle these dogs, Mr. Hinter."
He glanced at her closely, struck by the odd note in her voice. "He seems a manly little chap," he said. "I must get to know him better."
"You may succeed," she replied, "but I'm afraid you would have to know Billy a long time to know him well."
She bent and gave the dogs a farewell pat; then moved like the spirit of the moonlight to the house. "Good night," she called softly from the doorway.
"Good night," he echoed.
Five minutes later he was riding the two-mile strip of sand between the light-house and the pines, the Great Danes close behind. When he reached the timber he reined in to look back over his shoulder at the tall white tower with its ever-sweeping, glowing eye. Then, with a sigh, he rode forward and passed into the darkness of the trees. Half way down the trail he dismounted and, after hitching his horse to a tree and commanding his dogs to stand guard, plunged into the thickly-growing pines on the right of the path.
Half an hour later he came out upon the lake shore. Quickly he scraped together a pile of drift wood. He applied a match to it and as fire leaped up stood frowning across the water. Then, as an answering light flashed from some distance out in the lake, he sighed in relief and seating himself on the sand lit his pipe. After a time the sound of oars fell on his ears. A boat scraped on the beach. Two men stepped from it and approached the fire.