She was glad that she did not meet any of her friends who would, of course, ask where she was going. And now she was too far away to meet any boats of summer fisher folks or pleasure seekers.
"I am beginning to believe in the psychic," she mused, "for I have a feeling that a cry for help comes from that perfectly silent island."
Her heart beat quickly as she throttled down her engine, stopped it, and finally stepped ashore. Her landing was made on a different side of the island than before and she saw instantly that feet had been treading down the ferns from shore to inland. This path served to guide her along. Then she noticed particles of food.
"Hardly picnic folks along here," she thought. "Perhaps the canoe girl is somewhere about—"
But what was her terror when she faced the shore at a dear spot in the woods and against it saw the boat of the man Peters.
"Oh!" she gasped. "He must be on the island!"
Then she listened. Yes, there was a step! She sank down behind a clump of thick bushes and while hiding there she saw, not Peters, but Jones saunter down to the water's edge!
How she trembled! A half-fainting sensation overcame her. From a crouching attitude she sank flat on the ground and felt too weak to attempt to raise herself.
Meanwhile the man had reached his rowboat and pushed off. He glanced along and saw the motor boat.
"That girl!" he muttered. "She is interfering with my plans again. This would be an ideal place for a—" Then he stopped. "Bah! I'll just give her a chance to think over her courage."