“There’s no use our killing ourselves,” she said. “The tide’s under us. It’s a jolly lucky thing it is. If it was the other way we wouldn’t get home to-night. I wonder now whether the Kinsellas think you’ve any connection with the police. You don’t look it in the least, but you never can tell what people will think. If they do mistake you for anything of the sort it might account for their not wanting you to land on Inishbawn.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know why exactly—not yet. But there often are things knocking about which it wouldn’t at all do for the police to see. That might happen anywhere. There’s an air of wind coming up behind us. Just get in that oar of yours. We may as well take the good of what’s going.”
A faint ripple on the surface of the water approached the Tortoise. Before it reached her the boom swung forward, lifting the dripping main sheet from the water, and the boat slipped on.
“But of course,” said Priscilla, “that idea of your being a policeman in disguise doesn’t account for their telling Miss Rutherford that there was something on the island which it wouldn’t be nice for a lady to see. And it doesn’t account for the swine-fever story that Joseph Antony Kinsella told the spies.”
“What was that?”
“Oh, nothing much. Only that his wife and children had come out all over in bright yellow spots.”
“But perhaps they have.”
“Not they. You might just as well believe in Peter Walsh’s rats. That leaves us with three different mysteries on hand.” Priscilla hooked her elbow over the tiller and ticked off the three mysteries on the fingers of her right hand. “The sponge lady, whose name may be Miss Rutherford, one. Inishbawn Island, that’s two. The original spies, which makes three. I’m afraid we’ll have to row again. Do you think you can, Cousin Frank?”
“Of course I can.”