She bit her lip and stared out of the window.
The rain had stopped and the wind was flattening. Overhead the racing clouds were being sundered into groups and patches. She could see intervals of blue.
"A boat!" she called sharply. "Mr. Davidson's yacht!"
Sam sprang from his chair and joined her at the window. The yacht was making the wharf.
"Well, I guess this polar expedition has failed," he observed whimsically. "Better luck next time."
Rosalind was thinking rapidly. The arrival of the yacht meant safety—for her. But what of the boatman?
As they watched together a small procession of persons filed out upon the dock and began to march to the house.
"Mr. Davidson!" she exclaimed. "He's back!"
The boatman nodded.
"Mr. Witherbee, Mr. Morton, Mr. Williams—oh, everybody! And they have got—Billy Kellogg!"