“Do—do you suppose they are in danger?”
“Don’t know,” John twisted the wheel, “Bad fire.” He scanned the horizon.
“John,” said Dave, “do you know the rocks of Harlem Reef?”
“Every rock.” The Indian showed his fine teeth in a smile.
“Then I think,” Dave weighed his words carefully, “I think we’d better put in there. It’s off our course, but—”
“What’s that?” a voice broke in sharply, “A fire on Isle Royale?”
“Yes, we—”
Florence did not finish. As she looked into the eyes of the man who had spoken she read there something that almost frightened her.
He was a short, stout man, one of the few passengers on that voyage. In his face she seemed to detect a look almost of antagonism. “But why?” she thought in sudden consternation, “I’ve never seen him before, I am sure of that. What can we have done to him?”
When the man spoke, none of this was to be detected in his words.