“I can't, he's hiding here,—he's father's friend.”
“Hiding? What's he been doing?”
“Stealing. Stealing gold-dust from miners. I never cared for him anyway. And I hate a thief!”
She looked up quickly. Jarman had risen to his feet, his face turned to sea.
“What are you looking at?” she said wonderingly.
“A ship,” said Jarman, in a strange, hoarse voice. “I must hurry back and signal. I'm afraid I haven't even time to walk with you,—I must run for it. Good-by!”
He turned without offering his hand and ran hurriedly in the direction of the semaphore.
Cara, discomfited, turned her black eyes to the sea. But it seemed empty as before, no sail, no ship on the horizon line, only a little schooner slowly beating out of the Gate. Ah, well! It no doubt was there,—that sail,—though she could not see it; how keen and far-seeing his handsome, honest eyes were! She heaved a little sigh, and, calling Lucy to her side, began to make her way homeward. But she kept her eyes on the semaphore; it seemed to her the next thing to seeing him,—this man she was beginning to love. She waited for the gaunt arms to move with the signal of the vessel he had seen. But, strange to say, it was motionless. He must have been mistaken.
All this, however, was driven from her mind in the excitement that she found on her return thrilling her own family. They had been warned that a police boat with detectives on board had been dispatched from San Francisco to the cove. Luckily, they had managed to convey the fugitive Franti on board a coastwise schooner,—Cara started as she remembered the one she had seen beating out of the Gate,—and he was now safe from pursuit. Cara felt relieved; at the same time she felt a strange joy at her heart, which sent the conscious blood to her cheek. She was not thinking of the escaped Marco, but of Jarman. Later, when the police boat arrived,—whether the detectives had been forewarned of Marco's escape or not,—they contented themselves with a formal search of the little fishing-hut and departed. But their boat remained lying off the shore.
That night Cara tossed sleeplessly on her bed; she was sorry she had ever spoken of Marco to Jarman. It was unnecessary now; perhaps he disbelieved her and thought she loved Marco; perhaps that was the reason of his strange and abrupt leave-taking that afternoon. She longed for the next day, she could tell him everything now.