"I cal'late," observed Tobias nodding. "Well, Lorny, I reckon we can take hope of grace. If Bob Pritchett can beat off these sands till he claws around the p'int of the Twin Rocks, he'll make Clinkerport Bay, of course."
The door was flung open again. The little mahogany-faced Portuguese staggered in. It was plain to be seen that something fresh had happened.
"What is it?" cried Lorna, rising.
Even the detective turned from the stove to look at Rafe Silver. The latter spat out a word in his own tongue. Tobias laid a quick hand on his shoulder.
"Hey! What's happened to you now?" he demanded. "That wrist of yours——?"
But Silver writhed away, holding his injured hand well out of contact with Tobias. "Not me! Not me!" he shrilled. "Out there!"
He pointed seaward. The girl whipped about and reached the seaward window before any of them, jerking up the shade.
At the instant a red streak curved upward from the surface of the sea, far out from the shore. Another followed.
"Signal rockets!" murmured the lightkeeper.
"Oh, Tobias!" cried Lorna. "From the schooner?"