We rounded the promontory. The mouth of the bay, down to the island which shut it in from the sea, was before us. And it was all dark, as dark as the bay behind us, with not a pin-prick of light disturbing the primitive night.
George stopped paddling.
“What—what?” he gasped. “Oh, oh, my God!”
I did not speak. I continued to paddle like an automaton. In five minutes we were floating over the spot where the Wanderer had lain. The yacht was gone.
XXVII
We had little time to speculate on the problem of the Wanderer’s disappearance. After the first moment of stunned silence Chanler broke down, promptly and completely.
“Hang it, hang it!” he cried, striking the bow of the canoe with his paddle. “This is too much. Your fault, too, Gardy. Now find the yacht.”
“Steady, George!” I warned, as the light craft rocked dangerously. “You’re in a canoe, remember. Keep still.”
“Keep still, keep still! How d’you expect me to keep still? Isn’t this enough to make a man nervous. Hang it! I can’t keep still, I tell you. This is too much.”
“It nearly was,” I agreed. “A little more that time and we’d have been in the water.”