On a table formed of big planks, once the hull of some wrecked schooner, laid on rough trestles, they ate, what Peggy afterward declared, was one of the most enjoyable dinners of her life. Their host had at one time of his life been a sailor it would seem. At any rate, he had a fund of anecdote of the sea and its perils that held them enthralled.
Every now and again, through the open door, Peggy cast a glance outside. But the fog still hung thick. Suddenly, in the midst of their meal, footsteps sounded and voices came to their ears.
"Hullo, more visitors!" exclaimed the man of the island starting to his feet, "this is a day of events with a vengeance. Who can be coming now?"
The footsteps had drawn close now and a voice could be heard saying:
"What a rickety, tumble-down old place. I wonder what kind of savage lives here."
"Fanning Harding!" gasped Peggy, as another voice struck in. A voice she instantly knew as Regina Mortlake's.
"The next minute the man of the island ushered in his two new guests."
"Oh, what a dreadful place. Why won't this miserable fog lift. I'll be dead before we get back to the hotel."