"Yes, the press is on our trail, in any case. The fact that this is the Carstairs yacht will mean more to the Gazette than it could to the Daily. It will be a kind of connecting link for them. Of course, they'll jump at it like wildfire. If they can make anything at all out of it, they'll play it up to-morrow so that nobody in this town can possibly miss seeing it."
"Pray heaven," said Peter, referring to Mary Carstairs, "that she won't see the Daily this morning!"
"Yes. Her father's name would naturally start her to thinking, which would make things awkward."
"Larry, the Gazette is going to print his name to-morrow morning as sure as Smith is a lying sneak."
"We've still got to-day, haven't we? By Jove, it's nearly eleven already. A reporter may be down on us at almost any minute. We can't stand being cross-examined. No searchlight of journalism playing about on the Cypriani just now, thank you. My own idea is—"
"To grab him, to batter the face off him—"
"No, to elude him. Not to be here. In short, to run away."
"What? You can't mean that you are going to let that dog drive you back to New York?"
"Well, hardly. But I do mean to make him think he has! I mean to run down the river a few miles and anchor where they can't find us, simply to get out of the way. Then we'll run back to-morrow in time for the luncheon. What do you think of that?"
Peter, his forehead rumpled like a corduroy road, stared at him fixedly and thought it over. "I think it's the best thing in sight," he said judicially. "An exceedingly neat little idea."