"Where's Kirk?"
"He was in the boat," Felicia gasped hoarsely. "I ran back after the groceries."
Ken was at the end of the wharf in one agonized leap. In another second he had the frayed, wet end of rope in his hand.
"That salvaged line!" he said. "Phil, couldn't you see that only her stern line was made fast? I left her half-moored till I came back. That rope was rotten, and it got jammed in here and chafed till it parted."
"It's my fault," Felicia breathed.
"Mine," Ken snapped. "Oh, my heavens! look at the fog!"
"And the tide?" Felicia hardly dared ask.
"Going out--to sea."
A blank, hideous silence followed, broken only by the reiterated warning of the dismal siren at the lighthouse.
"It's like looking for a needle in a haystack. A boat would have to comb every foot of the bay in this fog, and night's coming. How long have you been gone?"