She struggled free, jumped into the boat and rowed away, with a laugh and a blown kiss to me from her finger tips.
As I turned, I cast my eyes up along the wharf.
A figure was standing there, motionless, as if hewn in stone.
It was Mary Grant.
Her hands were pressed flat against her bosom as if she were trying to stifle something that should not have been there. Her face wore a strange coldness that I had never seen in it before.
I could not understand why it should be so,—unless,—unless she had misconstrued the good-bye of Rita and me. But, surely,—surely not!
Slowly and laboriously, I made in her direction, but she sped away swiftly down the wharf, across the rustic bridge and into her cottage, closing the door behind her quickly.
As I sat by the fireside, thinking over what possibly could have caused Mary to behave so, something spoke to me again and again, saying:—
"Go over and find out. Go over and find out."
But I did not obey. My conscience felt clear of all wrong intent and I decided it would be better to wait till morning, when I would be more fit for the ordeal and Mary would have had time for second thoughts.