“How terrible!” said Ruth.
“You think so,” the little man said. “So do I. So do most Americans. And yet that was the principle for which they stood. For this principle they would smuggle, bomb, cast helpless girls adrift in a dismantled boat, destroy all.”
“That,” said Ruth, “is a terrible way to live.”
“We think so. We believe that you have done your country a great service. You will not go unrewarded.”
“The thing I can’t understand,” said Betty, “is why they remained in the old fort and kept their silks there after they knew that Ruth and I had been in that room.”
“They thought you were at the bottom of the sea where they meant you to be,” the little man smiled. “You would have been, too, had it not been for that chap you call Don and the fearless city boy.”
“Yes, we would,” Ruth said solemnly.
“And that,” said the little man, “is the end of the story. You have all been fortunate. You have helped solve mysteries and have known adventures.
“Your lives from this day may flow as smooth as a river, but the memory of this summer, with its joys and hopes, its perils, despairs, its defeats and victories can never be taken from you.”
“To-morrow night,” he said, as he walked with them to their waiting boat, “Witches Cove will be dark. My black cats and I are leaving to-morrow. Good night, good-bye, and good luck.”