In ignorance of what was in store for them, Bennie and Rhoda strolled further and further up the beach, away from the hotel. The moon came up round and full, smiling like an old and familiar friend. The breeze had died away, and the silver-edged waves lapped the soft sand gently at their feet as they threw themselves at full-length under some stray pines and gazed up through the branches at the blue arch with its thousands of twinkling lights.
"I like them so much better that way!" she murmured. "If they don't wink at you, it seems so unfriendly!"
"It was awful up there!" he assented.
The moon swam higher and higher, turning the beach into a white snow-drift, along which, save for that of the pines under which they lay, no shadow could be seen for miles. Toward this single possible hiding-place moved Diggs, a newspaper reporter from New York. The crunch of his steps made them sit up hurriedly.
"Sh! Somebody's coming!" he whispered.
They were motionless—two hunted creatures—scarcely breathing, in a black island surrounded by a deluge of moonlight.
But Diggs had spied them. Fifty feet away, he paused and lit a warning cigarette. Then he walked down to the water's edge, gazed pensively at the moon and remarked,
"I say, Professor Hooker?"
"It's no use," growled Bennie; "he's got us! Hello!" he answered.
The reporter coughed and came slowly toward the patch of shadow.