"Very good, sir," John answered, "I won't forget that." He stood at salute a moment, then ran down the steps and sprang into the car.
"Good-bye, sir," said Gates, the old butler.
"Good-bye," cried John as the car whirled out of the avenue.
When John reached the foot of Heatherpoint Hill, and began to ascend the long slope towards the fort, it was already seven o'clock. The sun lay low in the west, and there was no wind.
"Fine visibility if there was any shooting for Ewins," thought John.
The car halted before the first sentry.
"Friend," said John.
"Pass, friend," answered the man.
A minute later, from his seat in the car, John was able to see the south shore of the island, and obtained a momentary glimpse of a strip of sand below, which was accessible only to those within the area of the fort itself. Looking down into the little bay three hundred feet below, John was caught with admiration by the mirror-like blue of the water, the languid white roll of the waves. The little beach, as always, was deserted, or at least, John thought so in the first moment. But a second glance showed him that a soldier was strolling about with apparent aimlessness down below. The man was smoking a cigarette, and in the clear evening air John could plainly see the white smoke. So much he saw, when the man was lost to view.
In the fort, a minute later, John caught himself wondering what soldier it was.