“Perhaps.”
“Do you know,” she said as he stood up in the punt, “a friend of mine, my cousin, saw a plane pass Monhegan in the dead of night. Trans-Atlantic plane, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes. Only none have crossed for a long time. Say!” he said, sitting down again. “What sort of a plane was it?”
“Large, sea-colored plane. No name. No insignia. No mark of any kind.”
“That’s queer. Listen!” He put a hand on her arm. “Keep that dark. You may have made an important discovery. Men are coming to this country that we don’t want here. Things have happened. There’s more than one way to get into America these days.”
“Strange,” he mused, “you can’t make a great discovery, invent some new thing, do a daring deed, but those who are selfish, heartless, who wish to kill, destroy, tear down, take possession of it! But I must go. Hope I see you again soon.”
“Thanks for bringing back the punt,” Ruth said.
“Don’t mention it.”
He sprang upon the fusilage. Ruth rowed away. Motors thundered. The plane glided away, rose, then speedily became a speck in the sky.
Ruth bumped the rocky shore with a crash that nearly overturned the punt. She was thinking of many things.