"Aw, sure. Sure—I'm wise. I ain't strong for yachtin', anyhow. That's why I blew me roll in a buzz-wagon. Well, s'long, Bill. This here little scrap's goin' t' be a bird. I'll tell y' all about it."
When Mary Wayne arrived at the wharf there was no sign of the launch. She remembered that she had said nothing about the time of her return. Out in the river she could see the riding lights of the Sunshine and the glow from the saloon windows. But she had not the least idea of how to make a signal, nor any notion that they would understand a signal. The wharf was lonely. It seemed to her, as she seated herself on the string-piece, that she was as remote from civilization as though she were sitting at the north pole, although she knew there were seven or eight million people within a radius of a few miles. There was nothing to do but wait, even if it was a creepy place for waiting.
She had been sitting there for what seemed like half the night when a sound of footsteps startled her. Out of the murk a figure was approaching. An instant later, to her relief, she perceived it to be the valet.
He bowed in his mock deferential way and seated himself beside her.
"No launch?" he inquired.
"I forgot to speak to them."
"So did I. Well, the yacht's there, anyhow, miss. They won't leave without us. Is Miss Wayne better?"
Mary experienced a shock. She leaned closer toward him and stared through the gloom.
"You followed me!" she exclaimed.
"I'd hardly say that, miss. You see, I was quite certain where you were going."