“I must not forget. This is Jeanne’s big night. I must not be late. I—I will not fail—”
For all that, her head sank lower and lower. The day had been a long one. The battle in the orange grove had drawn heavily from her reserve of energy. The hypnotic spell of night and the ever-changing panorama of light sank deep. She nodded twice, then her head fell slowly forward. She was asleep.
Along the breakwater at that moment there glided a mysterious figure. By his nervous stops and starts one might judge him to be in a high state of nervous excitement. Yet there was in his movements a suggestion of extreme caution.
As he came near to the spot where the Polar ship lay anchored, he came to a sudden halt, stood there for a full moment as if rooted to the spot, then dashed away at full speed.
* * * * * * * *
At this moment Jeanne was standing with Jensie at the back of the Rutledge Tavern. They were looking out into the night. As if for mutual protection, they had their arms locked tightly together.
“There it is!” Jensie whispered.
“The hearse!” Jeanne shuddered.
And there most certainly it was, standing in the moonlight just as it had been on that first memorable night.
“Ah, well,” Jeanne whispered to herself, “much has happened since then.”