The girl laughed. “You’ll have your work cut out, Mr. Johnson. The motor boat has gone!”
Bill stared at her. Then abruptly he turned and walked out of the hut and up a steep incline that led to the cliffs overlooking the sea. Twenty-five feet below, deep water swirled about its base where year in and year out the strong current had eaten into solid rock. He heard a footstep beside him.
“Of course,” said the girl, her eyes twinkling, “there’s a dinghy locked in the boat-house! But you can’t break the lock, because I tried one day when I thought I’d lost the key. I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson, but I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with my company for a little while longer.”
Bill did not reply. He was listening to the unmistakable sound of a four-cylinder engine, one of whose cylinders intermittently missed fire. A motor boat shot round the point to their left and swung in toward the base of the cliff. It carried a single occupant.
“Here she comes now,” he said.
“That’s not our boat.”
“Whose is it then?”
“I don’t know—but I can guess.”
“That you, Bill?” shouted the man in the motor boat.
Bill, to his certain knowledge, had never laid eyes on him before. “It sure is,” he shouted back. “Will you take me across?”