Four shots there were this time; she had not counted the first group. Instantly she ran to the end of the dock and looked out across the water. As she stared into the darkness there was another shot, preceded some three or four seconds by a yellow flash.
"It's on another island," she told herself rapidly. "Can it be possible that there are burglars about? Heavens! Suppose they really did come here!"
She listened for more shots and watched for more flashes. Presently a light showed again, but it did not come from the muzzle of a gun.
She knew it to be the white, steady beam of an electric torch. A moment later another showed. Then they began moving in opposite directions. A little after that she heard the faint bark of a dog. She glanced behind her into the woods of Witherbee's Island. Nobody else seemed to be paying the least attention to what was going on across the water.
Miss Chalmers's curiosity was unleashed and stalking from its lair. It was possessed with a consuming desire. She found it dragging her along, with little or no effort on her part to hold it back. Its enthusiasm infected her. She, too—all the rest of her—wanted to know what was going on out there in the river.
Curiosity is a subtly cunning creature. Almost before she knew it, it guided Miss Chalmers to a St. Lawrence skiff, the existence of which she had not noticed before. The skiff was moored to the wharf; it did not take her more than two seconds to lower herself into it, cast off the line, and pick up the two light oars that lay in the bottom.
"I might just as well," she remarked in extenuation. "It's out of the question to sleep. Nobody will know anything about it. And—well, it cannot be much more than half a mile."
She fitted the oars to the swivel-locks, swung the skiff around, took her bearings from one of the electric torches, and fell into a long, steady stroke. The boat moved lightly and easily. She found something exhilarating in the exercise. She could not remember having touched a pair of oars since she rowed with her class-crew at Vassar.
She rowed well. That, of course, was characteristic of Miss Chalmers. Things that she could not do well, she did not do at all. For instance, holding her temper; almost invariably she bungled that, so she had given up trying. Besides, there is no particular reason why a rich, handsome, and imperious lady should hold her temper if she happens not to want to.
For a quarter of a mile she rowed without pausing, then made another observation over her shoulder. She was holding her course admirably, for the lights on the land ahead of her were much nearer. Now she could hear voices, particularly that of a man, who cursed a barking dog and then did something to it to make it yelp.