"What's the game?" finally asked Horace Pence, when he was sure the constable was out of hearing.
"Game? No game at all, I assure you," Kingdon answered gravely. "Don't lend yourself to suspicion, as many do, old chap. By the way, hand over that permit now, Horrors. It's served its purpose in your hands, I am sure."
Pence produced the paper without a moment's indecision. But he said:
"I'd rather you didn't think I swiped it out of your jacket pocket, Kingdon. I fancy it must have slipped out when you threw off your jacket that day to play ball. Joe Bootleg found it in the grass, afterward, and brought it to me."
Kingdon looked straight into the black eyes of Horace as he accepted the permit in its envelope. "I believe you," he said simply, putting it into his pocket.
Suddenly the coarse voice of Ben Comas broke in:
"All very fine, but I take it we go, just the same, Horrors. 'Twould have been better if we had got off the island before all this foolishness happened."
Kingdon laughed at him cheerfully. "Not at all necessary. I don't see why you should leave, now that things are so comfortable and pleasant all around."
"What's that?" demanded Pence, plainly startled.
"The island's a cramped place, I know," Kingdon responded, with a careless wave of his hand. "But it's been more than a little fun rowing with you fellows. It puts quite a tang into the taste of it all. Hate to see you chaps move out when there's no necessity for it."