The trio in pajamas turned back toward the path. Miss Chalmers put her head forward cautiously for another glance. She was just in time to see the figure of the tall man disappear, his pajamas flapping disconsolately about his ankles, his lantern swinging listlessly.
"They're worse than the boatman," she commented.
Not until the last sign of a light had disappeared, and only when she could no longer hear sounds from the direction of the house, did Miss Chalmers venture from her seclusion. She went back to the dock and sat down on the string-piece.
"This is a fine state of affairs," she reflected. "Now I've got to say. I never thought about the trunks.
"But how will I ever explain? I'll die before I admit I set off that burglar-alarm. I'll not only die, but I'll lie. I'll die lying. Some time to-morrow morning I've got to announce myself.
"But how? I'm an idiot—but I won't admit that either.
"Why did I run? That's what I should like to know—why? I've been behaving like a child."
Presently she shuddered, but it was not because there was a chill in the air. She was thinking of pajamas.
"I shall never wear them again," she murmured. "Thank Heaven, I brought—"
At this point her thoughts very naturally drifted to a consideration of some place to sleep. She had no liking for camping out under the stars if she could help it. She wanted a roof over her head.