"Which way did you say you wanted to go?"
"I didn't say. But"—her arm pointed across the river—"you may take me in that direction until I tell you further."
"That's Rockport, on the Canadian side," he observed as he altered the course. "That place where you see the lights."
"Very well; head for it."
The launch moved onward for fifteen minutes, only the steady exhaust of the engine breaking the silence. The boatman smoked steadily and devoted the chief part of his time to a study of his passenger's profile. She seemed to be thoroughly oblivious of his presence.
Abruptly, when Witherbee's Island was a good two miles astern, she leaned forward and switched off the spark.
"This will do," she said.
Sam made a cursory observation of their position, which was midway in the broad Canadian channel. The nearest island was probably a mile distant.
"I desire to talk to you," she remarked, turning a calculating pair of eyes upon him. "The reason why we came here is that I did not care to be interrupted."
He nodded.