"Dirk's been dead a long time, and has no successors in the business," Dick interposed. "His men probably were more ruffianly than romantic, but they must have given the neighborhood an interest, with their signal fires, their vessels running in at dark, and their pack-horses winding through the moors— The trawler's gone!"
"Impossible," Andrew said quietly. "She hasn't had time to steam farther than we could see her lights."
"Then she's put them out. Perhaps the net's over."
"What's that light ashore?" Whitney asked.
A twinkling flash appeared on the high, black cliff behind the island and went out, but after a moment or two flickered up again and, growing brighter, burned for a time.
"It looks as if the smugglers weren't quite extinct," Whitney remarked.
Andrew made no comment, but when a cool breeze came off the land he edged the boat closer to the beach. It showed as a gray blur beneath the crag, hardly distinguishable except for the white fringe of surf.
"I'm curious about that light," he admitted. "I'd have said it was somebody baiting a long-line or looking for lobsters, only that the fellow wouldn't have waited for high-water. Then, it was too brilliant for a lantern."
"Let's go ashore, Whitney," suggested Dick, anticipating adventure of some kind.
"All right," Andrew replied. "Scull in instead of rowing: it's quieter. And take the small cask and ask if there's a spring about if you meet anybody."