Dorothy sat bold upright, her eyes snapping with excitement.
“Listen, Bill! Those men in the cottage—I heard them talking, you know—couldn’t make anything out of their conversation then, but now I’m beginning to understand part of it.”
“Didn’t you tell me they were arguing against going somewhere—or meeting someone—in the fog?”
“That’s right. It was the man they called Charlie—the one who’d been a physician. Let me see ... he said that there was a rotten sea running out by the light. That must mean the Fire Island Light! Then, listen to this. He was sure that by three o’clock the fog off the light would be thick enough to cut with a knife—and that they would probably miss her anyway!—Don’t you see? ‘Her’ means the liner they are to meet off the Fire Island Light about three o’clock this morning!”
“Good work, Miss Dixon—” Bill nodded approvingly. “And that is where Donovan and Charlie headed for when they parked you with Peters,” he supplemented. “On a bet, they’re running their motor sailor out to the light right now.”
Dorothy glanced at the luminous dial of her wrist watch.
“It is just midnight. Think we have time to make it?”
“Gosh, that’s an idea! But, look here, Dorothy—” Bill hesitated, then went on in a serious tone, “if we run out to the lightship and those two in the motor sailor spot us, there’s likely to be a fight.”
Dorothy moved impatiently. “What of it?”
“Oh, I know—but you’ll stand a mighty good chance of getting shot. This thing is a deadly business. They’re sure to be armed. Now, listen to me. I’ll row you ashore and meet you in Babylon after I’ve checked up on those guys.”