Front matter (continued 2)

Christobel heard him doing it and guessed that he expected it would be necessary.

Presently he came up the short companion-way, put his head out and stared at the sky again. The line of black was advancing swiftly over the blue.

"We shall have big rain, old lady," he said. "I don't know how much wind! Of course, it's only thunder, but----"

Low down over the hills shot out a succession of wicked fiery darts. They stabbed downwards into the quiet land as though they would destroy it. Deep ominous rumblings followed.

"I think I rather hate it," said Crow uneasily.

"I'll get the mackintoshes out of the fore lockers, expect we shall find a use for them before we are through with this beano! You'll have to put yours on," Adrian said, then he laughed. "When it comes, it'll come."

Then they both laughed, and Christobel as usual found support and comfort in her brother's matter-of-fact way of looking at things. She was no coward. Her courage was of a high order, though she was not aware of it, but certain conditions affected her imagination and made icy thrills run all over her.

Adrian would have said "It's only a few clouds--what does that matter?" Equally he would have said of a dark night and its mysteries, "If it were daylight you wouldn't mind! What's the difference? There's nothing there."

While she gazed at the towering masses that hung over sea and land with dread in her eyes, Adrian thought about mackintoshes.

"When the rain comes I shan't mind," said Crow, "rain is only--well, rain."

"How true," murmured Adrian, "and being rain it wets."

They both laughed again, and the skipper felt better.

But even Addie was quite silent before the wetting part came.

The land was invisible now, except when those stabs of flame tore splits in the barrier; then the two watchers could see the dark breathless combes and the big headlands showing black and rugged. But it seemed as though there was no end to the piling weight of cloud that now almost covered the sea, the vivid contrast of the blue space over the shining horizon making it the darker. The growlings and rumblings had now turned to crashes, the noise adding to the dread.

At this phase Adrian questioned whether it would not be well to get the mainsail in--it would be so wet, he suggested, and they could do with the mizzen well enough; but Christobel did not agree.

"If the wind is bad we can drop the peak," she said, "after all it's not like a cutter mainsail--they are so huge. We've only just enough to send us along nicely. Besides, once we stow it it will take ages to set again. Let's risk it."

So they decided to "risk it", which was an instance of Crow's way of looking at things. She was not afraid to face a possible gale--but she was horribly afraid of the look--the influence--of that overwhelming pile of gloomy cloud.

"I wonder how many 'volts' are playing skittles up there," remarked Adrian thoughtfully, "great Scotland! If one knew how to box it all up and use it for transport power--engines of every sort and kind! Why can't I invent something! It ought to be a British monopoly--we could switch it on to any nations that played the fool--and there we should be---- Hullo--see that tender drop, Crow? A wash-hand basin would hardly have held it--put this thing on."

"This thing" was, of course, the mackintosh.

The brother and sister were busy for a few seconds, then they sat down again armoured--in sticky, shiny oilskins, and sou'westers well drawn over their ears.

"Go inside, Addie, why should two swim?" said Crow, speaking loud through the deafening riot of crashes.

"Oh no," shouted Adrian with weighty sarcasm, "I'll go to bed, and light the stove, and tuck myself up with a hot-water bottle; better still, you could leave the tiller and tuck me up! By the way, that reminds me--aren't you about fed up with steering?"

Crow shook her head, and spread both hands out with a meaning gesture--only her elbow stayed the tiller in place.

Adrian understood; it was just a question of waiting, so he varied the monotony by going forward to batten down the forehatch, coil in loose sheets, make fast the anchor, and see that the peak halyard was nowhere hitched or encumbered. Then he returned aft and shut the door of the main cabin, commenting still on the size of one or two splashes, which he declared would have filled the kettle; the door slid along in grooves and was proof against heavy seas or torrents of rain. Then he turned an inventive eye on the dinghy, which was rocking sleepily under their quarter, and suggested that she might be used as a "wind anchor" if she filled up.

"Supposing we get a real howler," said Adrian, "we could make her fast to the bowsprit, you see, and just ride."

It was while they were laughing over this brilliant idea that Crow saw the grey wall coming, and sprang to attention as it were, standing up--an alert grip on the tiller.

It seemed to reach from the bank of blackness to the sea, and shut off the land like a blind. It was coming towards them--coming out to sea ushered by a noise like the rush of rapids--an immense volume of rain water, descending in lines straight as harp strings, and striking the level sea. It was very amazing, and Christobel gazed with awe; she had never seen anything quite like it, because a stretch of land has so many interruptions that you cannot see the line as you can on miles of water. Besides, water striking water like that is a very wonderful thing, foam fringes the edge of it all along, hissing like a boiler.

"This looks as though it meant to hurt our feelings--especially the dinghy's," said Adrian cheerfully, "she isn't used to bad manners."

Crow shrank instinctively as the rush of the advancing thing enveloped the yawl. They were battered by such rain as she had never experienced before, yet once into it, all her dread was dispelled like a nightmare.

Rain fell on the deck like the rattle of bullets, and in a minute the whole place was a wild wash of water pouring through scuppers, water streaming into the well, water heaving and lifting everything that could be pushed out of place. Crow held on to the tiller, but there was nothing doing in the sailing way--yet--nothing but water which seemed to nail them motionless by sheer weight. She glanced aside at the little boat, and saw her filling up swiftly--"Oh, poor dinghy," she gasped aloud--but there was no time to do anything, or even consider doing it, for something was coming at the back of the rain that asked for all her attention.

A puff of strong, chill wind----

Messenger leaned heavily to starboard, the flattened sea seemed to rise up in a line of foam under her quarter, water poured in at the streaming scuppers--and away she went--blinded--battered--drenched--away and away like a hunted creature flying for its life.

Certainly five minutes passed before these two adventurers began to take stock of their situation. So far, they had just let drive, steering the only possible course, straight ahead. At the end of five minutes the force of the downpour began to abate, but the wind was increasing.

As soon as speech was possible Adrian asked where she thought they were going?

The skipper laughed rather tremulously--it had been a strenuous five minutes.

"What about America? We might call on President Wilson. Please remember we can go where we please on the High Seas now! No more permits--no more 'out of bounds'. The question is, where can you get your hair cut?"

"Anywhere will do between here and Land's End," answered Adrian generously.

The rain was pouring off his sou'wester, over his nose. He looked very large and cheerful.

Now this was approximately the moment when Pamela assured her mother--on Adrian's authority--that the voyagers would be on shore at Tamerton or Netheroot! It was no doubt fortunate for Mrs. Romilly that she could not see the facts of the situation.

The straining yawl was driving her way through apparently limitless grey sea, of which the churning foam was taken by a wild wind and flung ahead in stinging mist. The sky, so far as it could be seen, was a froth of whirling cloud; everything was grey and confused--no land--no order--no outline.

"I believe we are going straight out to sea," said Crow.

"Do you?" Adrian was not impressed, "we may be going anywhere--all ways look alike. Jolly untidy view I call it! And look here, what about that wretched dinghy? She's about full up, and to judge by the way she's towing weighs about two ton! In one of these jerks we shall snap the painter; and then--she'll sink like a ton of sand."

Of all things in the world Christobel dreaded what she called "playing with boats" in the open sea, under conditions like the present. She pictured a sickening lurch, Addie overboard--driving to leeward--swallowed up in hideous grey confusion, herself helpless! Her lips grew white, but all she said was:

"Plenty of time yet."

Adrian laughed, flecks of many colours dancing in his hazel eyes.

"How true! And the world before us! I say, Crow, isn't this absolutely top-hole?"

"Hum--hum--please remember, my dear child, that we've got to come back."

"Plenty of time," said Adrian, echoing her words.

"I'll agree with you, when the rain stops, and I can see where we are;" Christobel shook herself as she spoke, and then looked in an interested manner at the wet drippings.

Adrian reverted suddenly to his unpleasant idea about the dinghy. There was no doubt that she was a serious pull back--a heavy and dangerous drag on the yacht. Crow saw it was inevitable, so she made her conditions. Adrian should bail out if she might bring Messenger up into the wind and lie-to, while he chose to poise himself in critical attitudes.

"Otherwise, I simply won't," declared the skipper with decision.

Adrian saw no necessity, of course. There was more zest in a really dangerous operation! However, he made no objection and Crow put the helm hard down. The yawl answered like a horse with a tender mouth. Round she came on a sweeping curve, the wet sails first shivering, and then giving out a succession of loud reports. A moment after and they were on a level keel in comparative quiet, leaping at the waves with some sort of regularity.

"Phew! What a comfort!" exclaimed Christobel, stretching both arms. Then she lashed the jerking tiller, while her brother hauled over the foresail sheets, and braced in the mainsail close.

The wind rushed by them with the same force, but they did not feel it, of course, and there was time to take stock, and put their "house in order", so to speak. Moreover, the skipper had pleasure in the conscious knowledge that if Addie did fall overboard it would be easy enough for him to regain the yawl.

She laughed with sudden joyousness.

"What's the joke?" asked her brother.

"I feel like the frog-footman in Alice Through the Looking-glass, 'I shall stay here--on and off--for days, and days'. It's very appropriate to one's wishes."

"Well, we needn't go home," Adrian remarked as he hauled in the small boat cautiously, "I mean we can go back by train, and leave the yawl----"

"Where?"

"Oh, anywhere."

This was not at all explicit, but Crow understood his meaning, which was that they were not bound to sail back to Bell Bay. They could make some port, and, putting the Messenger in safety, return by rail.

"We'll see where we are when the clouds roll by," she answered; "it's not going on, Addie. I believe firmly that we shall have a perfect evening."

Adrian, divesting himself of his oilskins, and his boots--"in case the bally thing sank with him," as he explained, made no answer to his sister's expectations. But about ten minutes after, when he climbed over the counter, his work well done, he repeated that there was any amount of time, and it would be much better fun to go home some other way.

The storm had either dispersed or "gone to America", they thought. It had changed the whole aspect of the scene into a desolate waste of tossing grey sea and driving grey cloud, but there was no more lightning, very little rain, and a mere mutter of far-away thunder.

The voyagers found it was just on three o'clock, and Adrian suggested they should steer by compass. He wanted to know where it was.

"Mollie put it somewhere," answered Crow, with cheerful vagueness most unbecoming in a skipper.

So Adrian unlocked the door of the main cabin, and slid it open.

"Wonderful how whiffy any boat gets when you shut her down, even for half an hour, with everything close," he remarked, putting his head within and sniffing critically, "commend me to an oil-stove on a small yacht for an A1 stench."

Christobel sat still outside, waiting. Her mind was much easier. She realized that all conditions were quieter. She could certainly see farther. Adrian called out from below that he couldn't find the compass, so she also dived into the saloon, and hunted exhaustively. No compass. They decided that Mollie or Penberthy had taken it ashore.

To let in more light upon the search Adrian unfastened the forehatch, and then lighted the stove, because there was a "wonderful unanimity"--as somebody said, on the question of early tea, Adrian declaring he was full of salt, and Christobel that such a lot had happened since lunch.

All things then being in train for refreshment and start, the skipper hastened upstairs again, and the first thing she saw was that the dinghy had slipped her tow and gone off.

She called to Adrian, who appearing with swiftness took a comprehensive look at the shifting grey waste around.

"She can't be far off," declared Crow hopefully.

Her brother pointed to a dark blot that was heaved up by a wave, only to disappear behind another foam-tipped hill.

"Little beast," he said shortly.

"Never mind," Christobel urged cheerfully--she detected a fallen expression on his face, "never mind, Addie, it's nobody's fault. We'll soon pick her up."

As they hauled the jib over and let out the mainsheet, she added:

"What a blessing it didn't happen when the rain was pouring, and she was full of water! She'd have sunk to a certainty."

Adrian allowed these cheering remarks to pass unnoticed.

"I thought I made her fast," he said. Such mishaps rankle.

In spite of all their efforts that dinghy evaded capture for twenty minutes at least, if not more. If anybody thinks this improbable let them try to capture a small light boat in such conditions. Many tacks seemed to succeed only in passing just out of reach; running down on the wind ended in a miss, because the pace was too swift for the careful use of the necessary boat-hook.

Adrian stood ready in the bows of the yawl, holding to the forestay, only to fail half a dozen times, once narrowly escaping a dive. After that he pursued operations from the counter, making Crow very nervous.

"Hold on, child, for mercy's sake," she urged, "do consider wretched me if you go overboard!"

Adrian was just in the heat of proving that it would be actually to her advantage if he fell overboard--couldn't he reach the dinghy more easily--when Christobel, partly by sheer luck, brought the yawl up into the wind on the very spot, so cleverly that she seemed to stop side by side with the runaway. A swoop of the boat-hook, a moment's tension, and Adrian had grasped the trailing tow-rope.

Christobel blew a very loud sigh of relief, she had been very intent on the capture. Immediately on that came an exclamation of surprise, and Adrian rose from his knees to see what new excitement was coming their way.

CHAPTER VI

"I wouldn't have believed it of Pam!"

The heavy atmosphere of spray, rain, and driven cloud that had enveloped the yacht up till now was passing bodily over to seaward. From beneath the curtain of it towards the north appeared--in brilliant sunshine--a wonderful line of coast showing up in rain-swept clearness. Above it the sky was blue; the purple and emerald hills glowed in the setting.

"Oh, Addie, what a dream of beauty! We shall be in it directly--just look how all the murky stuff is drifting away over the sea! I say, though, aren't we a long way out--miles and miles!"

Adrian dived below to search for the glass, which fortunately had not gone ashore with the compass. Christobel with narrowed eyes, tried to distinguish landmarks. The sunlight over the coast was growing stronger every moment.

After bringing the glass to bear on the scene Adrian gave a joyful chuckle.

"Who'd have thought it, Crow," he cried, pointing rapidly from place to place as he named them. "See--there you are! The Beak miles behind us. There's the Bell Ridge, ever such a way back. There's the lighthouse--white as a big tooth. There's the high Down up above Ramsworthy--with the glass you can see the rows of new houses above Netheroot sands! Do you see where we are, old girl? Almost level with Salterne Harbour! Here's the Heggadon bluff exactly opposite, and, of course, just round the corner of that you get the entrance to the estuary. It is simply the neatest thing in life. Why, I pictured that we were somewhere between Peterock and Bell Bay, with all the hard work to do coming back against this northerly breeze--and here we are only a mile or two from the harbour with a fair wind, and please note tide in our favour still. Now look here--we chuck Peterock, of course, and make for Salterne while we have tea--go right up to the bridge and pick up some spare moorings. Put a decent chap in charge of the yawl. Get my hair cut, and go back by train. How's that?"

"And wire to Mum as soon as we get into the town," added Christobel behind the glasses.

"Oh, that's of course," said Adrian, who was restless with excitement, "come on then, let's have tea--any amount of tea, I'm as hollow as a drum. Give me the tiller, you've been at it for an age. The stove's all ready--by the way, I told Mother Jeep to give us about a dozen hard-boiled eggs, I knew I could eat six! I say, Crow, isn't it the very limit to come out down here? Who'd have imagined such dazzling luck. When you come to think of it, losing the dinghy was about the best thing that ever happened to us----"

And so on ... Adrian glowing with optimism which was his normal condition--when not in the depths of despondency.

Christobel was supremely happy too. The sun shone. Addie was very content, and Mrs. Romilly would receive a wire. She made tea, and sang under her breath.

It was nearly five o'clock when they crossed the humming bar, between the lovely slopes of Peverell and Tamerton. The wind dropped suddenly, because the huge bluff called the Heggadon formed a complete screen, but the tide still acted a friendly part, for, though it was turning outside, the change was not completed inside, as harbours and all inlets of the sea are half an hour to an hour later than the main tide outside.

The Messenger swept in smoothly on the top of the flood, under the most perfect conditions possible. The beautiful estuary looked like an inland sea, with here and there the long back of a sandbank showing above the ripple.

"We'll do it again, Crow, won't we?" said Adrian, beaming satisfaction, "why, it's nothing."

"No," allowed the skipper, eyeing the wet sails thoughtfully.

"Look at the time, my good girl--look! Five o'clock. And when did we leave Bell Bay?"

Christobel thought it was about 11.30.

"So it was--well, what's that? Five hours and a half--and not plain sailing, mind you, either--but a rattling thunderstorm, and a lost dinghy! I call it great!"

Crow admitted that it was great.

"But I'm afraid we shan't get home till rather late," she added.

Adrian briefly reviewed the train time-table, which was decidedly limited in that part of the world.

"We shall want something extra to eat in the town," he said, "but mind you, one can do an awful lot in the eating line in ten minutes. I know, because I've tested. Let's say 6.20, Crow, and get to Five Trees at about 6.45----"

"Addie, we can't," broke in Christobel, dismayed, "we are simply bound to miss that train. We are going awfully well, but it ought to take nearly an hour to reach the bridge, and then there's all the work of stowing, and finding a man--and your hair--and the wire--Oh, we can't do it!"

"Well, there's only one other train, the last one, what's that--leaves Salterne about five minutes to nine. Beastly few trains! Well, what do you say?"

Christobel considered with a disturbed expression of face.

"Well," went on Adrian, who quite refused to see any drawback to the joy of the situation, "well, look here, Crow. We'll try for the 6.20, and if we miss it we'll go by the nine o'clock."

There was no doubt at all about the missing. The wind lessened to a mere breath, and the tide was beginning to turn against them during their sail up the last long reach. They got to the bridge in a state of "sleepiness", as the skipper called it--so much so that they had to submit to receive assistance from a person of the "long-shore" kind, who had fastened a speculative eye upon them the moment they appeared at the turn by the big shipyard. He came to meet them, in a clinker-built boat, rowing weightily--he was very like the men in W. W. Jacobs' stories. Adrian accepted a tow and the offer of "a little pair o-moorings where the old Fair Hope lays when she's in harbour".

Adrian accepted, assuring Christobel over his shoulder that it was the only thing to do, and far the quickest.

The mariner went slow, slower; "slow as the wheels of evolution", as a certain story says. He hailed kindred spirits on the quay, and the small matter of picking up a moorings buoy was turned into a positive function--and would have to be paid for as such, of course!

Christobel groaned aloud, then laughed. It was no use worrying.

Adrian, whistling between disparaging remarks on the manners and customs of long-shore persons, took it easily.

"Lots of time before nine o'clock, Crow," he said.

They went into the town about the time the 6.20 p.m. arrived at Salterne, and sent off their wire. After that the skipper resigned herself to calm enjoyment. The afternoon, since the storm dispersed, had been so beautiful that Mrs. Romilly could hardly have worried so far, and the telegram would secure the rest.

Adrian had his hair cut. The necessary feeding was not a matter of ten minutes, but a most delightful meal; finally Crow rejected a suggestion of "The Pictures for about half an hour or so"--nothing would induce her to risk missing that train--and they sat in the station in the warm darkness. It was very quiet, and sparely lighted. She was happy enough, but Adrian was rather regretful about going at all.

"I see what we ought to have done," he said, "wired to Mum that we were sleeping on board in the harbour. What an awful pity. I suppose we couldn't do it now, Crow?"

"Can't send a wire now," answered Christobel.

"Pity. That walk from Five Trees to Bell Bay is rather a grind. If we stayed on the yawl we could sail home to-morrow morning."

"We can't stay on the yawl--Mother would be in fits, when we've wired we are coming by this train. Addie, don't have a fleeting mind. Let's talk about something else."

But the train came in from Riversgate--they could see it winding along out of the far hills to the south of the harbour and crossing the bridge like a mechanical toy--they got in, and went over to the end of the carriage from which the wide estuary was visible under the young moon. Such a wonderful sight, with sandhills exposed and a hundred different channels sending tides out to sea.

"I wouldn't live inland if you paid me to," said Adrian firmly.

"'And so say all of us'," quoted Crow in an ardent whisper.

Then they were silent--looking out.

Twenty to twenty-five minutes after that, they drew into the little moorland station, high, fresh, and lonely, under the moon. There were still clouds about, which made the shadows more eerie. It was all beautiful and mysterious as only the far west country can be. The brother and sister heartily agreed that the whole day had been well worth living.

"I'm not sure this isn't best of all," said Crow.

Adrian was planning arrangements for fetching the yawl, and they covered the long stretch of white road in quick time; no walking is so delightful as that in moonlight, with all the world to oneself. Owls hooted from the trees, and in a distant copse a nightingale suddenly began his song--more perfect for the space and loneliness.

The Romilly pair became silent. Conversation seemed almost irreverent.

They were approaching the Folly Ho turn. Suddenly into the quiet broke a monotonous light sound--the tapping of feet on hard ground; someone was running at an even pace.

"We're not the only people alive to-night," said Christobel in a low voice, "I thought we were."

"Coming from Peterock way," Adrian said, "we shall see who it is in a jiff; they are bound to come in front of us, unless they jump the hedge into the field. Sounds like a girl running."

"Why?" asked Christobel, "much more likely to be Peter Cherry, or someone like that. There are not many girls to run when one comes to calculate."

They were approaching the turn. The road before them was white and clear, the trees at the corner looking curiously distinct. With one accord both ceased to speak, and gave all attention to the light regular sound that drew nearer.

Pat, pat, pat--fell the running feet, and from the side-road appeared a figure. In a moment it was speeding down hill in front of the interested pair.

"Addie!" gasped Christobel, with startled emphasis.

"My only aunt!" ejaculated Adrian, "who'd have thought it."

"You see who it is?"

"Rather!"

"But, Addie, what's she doing coming from Folly Ho, this time of night?"

"Why ask me?" said her brother with reason.

"Mother thinks she's in bed, of course," went on Christobel in a troubled voice; "I'm sure it can be explained, but it is horrid. It's utter bad form. I wouldn't have believed it of Pam."

Adrian maintained a gloomy silence. Brothers never approve of unconventional explosions on the part of sisters; especially very pretty sisters of Pamela's age. It is taken as a matter of course that they are not old enough for independent action.

With one accord the two elders increased their pace to a fast walk, then to a trot.

"We shall see her directly," said Crow, "she wasn't going so very fast, and the road past Woodrising is perfectly straight for some way."

They reached the corner. Ahead of them, some way down the hill, was a running figure.

Adrian put his fingers to his mouth and made a long, harsh whistle like a steam escape.

For a moment they saw a face, as the girl checked and glanced round. But she did not stop, she ran on again, evidently faster.

"Jolly well ashamed of herself," said Adrian, rigidly disapproving. "She can't escape, Crow. She'll be ahead of us--in sight--all the way home."

It is a proverb never "to boast", that is to say, never to reckon on a hope as a fact--lest something unexpected spoils the hope. In this case the moon failed the pursuers. They had been so intent on Pamela that neither of them noticed a big patch of cloud sailing swiftly up from the north. In a moment the moon was shut off, and in a minute the darkness was pretty complete, for the cloud was a heavy one.

"Oh--dash it!" exclaimed Adrian irritably, "just when we were sure."

"Never mind, we can run just the same. We shall get used to the dark, and anyway, Addie, she can't run fast any more than we can. One can't help taking care, when one can't see."

"Hedges are getting clearer," suggested Adrian, "funny how quickly one gets used to things. This Woodrising wall is plain as the lighthouse."

They ran on--down hill always, passed the long line of wall, and just as the overhanging shrubs and sheltering height of Fuchsia Cottage hill-side showed a big black patch on the right hand, the moon suddenly appeared again, and everything around--road, hedges, bushes, and towering steep above cottage and church--came out again as clear as a painted scene.

Adrian and Christobel both looked ahead down the road. It was empty. Not a soul in sight.

"Where's she gone to?" said Christobel, stopping.

"Don't ask me, my good girl," Adrian was cross, unquestionably, "I suppose she's up to some trick."

Such a suggestion did not please Crow.

"You shouldn't talk like that, Addie," she expostulated. "Pam doesn't play 'tricks'. She isn't that sort of girl. None of us are. There may be something up we don't know about that sent her up to Folly Ho. Perhaps Mother wanted a message taken to Timothy Batt--one never knows! The thing I don't understand is, how she's managed to disappear, considering the road is about as straight as a ruler, and the moonlight is bang on it, and there's only one way home."

Adrian said nothing; in silence, and at a quick walk they arrived opposite the shaded gate of Fuchsia Cottage. Here Christobel stopped again. "She can't have sunk through the earth, Addie, and she wouldn't have jumped the hedge! I believe she went in here. Mother may have given her a message to the Little Pilgrim--why not?"

"Why not, of course!" echoed Adrian dryly. "The sort of thing Mother would do--considering it's just on ten o'clock."

There was so much truth in this, that Christobel did not make any reply to it--she said:

"I'm just going to ask," and opened the gate.

They went up the path, mounted three short flights of brick steps that cut the three little terraces, and found themselves at a deep porch half buried in roses. Apparently Miss Lasarge heard them coming, for she appeared on the threshold of the pretty sitting-room-hall.

"This is nice, dear children," she said in the eager sweet voice that was one of her attractions, "come into the dining-room--the cocoa is just ready."

That was the cottage. A good-sized sitting-room hall with windows looking two ways, and a cosy little dining-room. Three bedrooms above. There was also the kitchen, where reigned Lizzie Sprot, a sturdy west-country young woman, who had lived eleven years with Miss Anne--from the age of seventeen. Lizzie Sprot had gone to bed, she always went when she had taken in the cocoa, and left Miss Anne to sit up and write letters as a rule.

"Is Pam here?" asked Christobel, as they followed the slim, grey figure into the dining-room, yet even as she asked the question she felt instinctively it was a foolish one.

"Is who here, dear? Sit down now, both of you--that's right. Two cups from the corner cupboard, please, Crow--that is delightful. Now, what is it you were asking--something about Pam?"

Christobel asked again. Adrian said nothing, except to corroborate his sister's story.

"So you think you saw Pamela come down the Folly Ho turn, and go--towards home?"

Now Miss Lasarge said this, a mere repetition of what she had just been told, in rather an uncertain tone.

Adrian said afterwards, that anyone could see she thought it was objectionable, but did not like to say so.

Christobel looked a bit anxious, but went straight to the point with the sincerity that was part of her sterling character.

"We don't think, Little Pilgrim, we know. The moon was bright, and the road clear as day. Addie whistled to her, and she looked round. We saw her look over her shoulder at us, but instead of stopping she only ran faster."

"Oh, that doesn't sound like Pam," murmured Miss Anne.

"But it was Pam," asserted Crow.

"Don't you think you might easily have mistaken some other girl for Pamela, dear? Moonlight is very deceptive--and you said that a cloud came directly after and obscured your vision. Really, I can't help feeling----"

"It was Pamela right enough, Miss Anne," said Adrian firmly; "she was as plain as a hayrick, pig-tail and all. No other girl in Bell Bay has hair like Pamela. Besides, when it comes to that, what other girls are there about? Mollie Shard is not here now, and if she were, she isn't the least like Pam."

There was a pause. Christobel set her cup on the table and half rose.

"You needn't go for a few minutes," suggested Miss Anne, "Mother won't be anxious. She got your wire, I know, because I was there when it came."

Christobel asked if Mrs. Romilly was anxious during the thunderstorm; and recounted their adventure in a few words--as matter of fact, the yawl affair had been driven out of her mind by this business about Pamela.

"It was a horrid storm here," said Miss Lasarge, apparently pleased to talk about something else, "terribly noisy, and very heavy rain. But I understood that your mother wasn't really anxious. She hoped you were on shore--then it came fine--so lovely, too--I never saw anything like the colours--land and sea."

Christobel stood up to go. She apologized again for calling in at such an hour.

"We only just thought there was a chance of Pam--having come in with a message----"

"I'm sure you'll find it was all right, dear Crow," said Miss Lasarge, kissing her; "I--I expect it was somebody else. You'll find Pam is in bed and asleep, unless she is sitting with your mother."

"No doubt we shall find Pam is in bed, and she'll tell us she's asleep," said Adrian, as they went out through the gate.

"Oh, don't, Addie," begged Christobel, "I'm sure there's an explanation."

Silence ensued, then she continued:

"Didn't you think Miss Anne was a tiny bit--well--confused? I thought so."

"I thought she believed it was Pamela, but tried not to believe it, and was hunting round for excuses anyway. She certainly seemed a bit uncomfortable--besides, it's sheer rubbish to tell us it might be somebody else. She knows and we know that there isn't anybody else. But she's an awfully kind person--in fact, she's a regular little saint, she can't bear to think anybody is wrong."

As they were opening the big gates at the end of the drive, Christobel asked:

"Shall we tell Mother? What ought we to do about it?"

"You mean about seeing Pam?"

"Yes. Suppose we find Mother knows nothing and is secure and comfortable as usual, and that Pam is up in her room. Well, what ought we to do?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Adrian irritably, "it's sickening. One can't go clacking to Mother about Pam--it simply isn't done," he shut the gates with a vicious snap.

"That's what I thought," Crow was relieved, "let's wait and see what Pam says--I'll go and ask her to-night."

"Just as you like," agreed Adrian indifferently, and they went in.

Mrs. Romilly was reading the paper; she was delighted to see them, and eager to hear all details. She said she had not been anxious, because Pam told her they proposed landing if the weather was bad. At this point Adrian turned his head discreetly to conceal a smile. When the storm passed she had been quite happy; and, when the telegram came, had considered it all a most wise arrangement.

"Your hair looks so nice, darling," she said, looking approvingly at Adrian's sleek head.

Pleading sleepiness the two went off to bed, and on the landing upstairs Christobel said: "Wait a minute," and slipped down to Pamela's room at the end.

She knocked. There was no answer, so she opened the door gingerly, and put her head into the opening. A long heap in the bed stirred, and turned over with a jerk.

"Hullo, who is it; what do you want, Hughie?" demanded Pamela in the slurring tones of one but half awake.

"It's not Hughie--it's Crow. I just peeped in to see if you were awake," said Christobel, not at all pleased with herself, because she felt a wee bit mean.

"Oh, you're back. That's all right. I'm so glad. Did you have a jolly time?"

"Awfully jolly--after the thunder cleared," said Crow.

"Tell me about it to-morrow. Good-night, Crow," murmured Pamela sleepily, and relapsed into slumber.

In the passage Christobel whispered to Adrian:

"She was sound asleep--sound. I woke her, but she was only half awake."

Adrian whistled softly, and departed to his room without comment.

CHAPTER VII

Confidences in "the Cave"

A journey to Salterne next day was out of the question, because the weather had taken the bit between its teeth and was behaving badly. This happens so often after a thunderstorm that nobody was surprised; everyone simply looked out for something to do. Adrian plunged with vigour into a brief spell of mowing. It seemed wise to grapple with the rapidly growing grass while there was nothing better on hand. Christobel, feeling uneasy, sought an opportunity for private conversation with her sister. She was uneasy, because she believed it was somehow all right--though it looked all wrong--and she didn't know how to begin.

Pamela was alone in the library, sitting in the biggest leather chair after a style of her own, that is, inside the chair with her long slim legs hanging over the arm, and her knees forming a satisfactory rest for the inevitable book.

Christobel entered on this scene of peaceful comfort with a direct question, after her way:

"Oh, Pam, there you are. I rather wanted to ask you something."

She shut the door, and came forward to take a seat on the edge of the writing-table, near the big chair.

Pamela glanced at her and detected mystery. She did not say so, though, but let her gaze rest again on the interesting page and murmured:

"All right. Fire away."

"You don't mind my asking, Pam, but did Mother send you out--send you anywhere--last night?"

The inquiry was made awkwardly. Crow flushed rather pink.

"How do you mean?"

Pamela's intent blue gaze was raised, and she looked curiously at her sister's face.

"How do you mean 'send me out', Crow?"

"Well, is there any mystery about it?"

"About what?"

"About you being out last evening?"

Pamela remained silent for quite a minute; she was reviewing swiftly in her mind what the time was when she had returned from Woodrising--after her ineffective search-visit. Eight o'clock! She was back before eight, of course, because supper was timed for eight and she was in--with a brief period for dressing.

After that pause she answered:

"I don't know what you are driving at, my dear Crow."

But of course Christobel had noticed the hesitation. It made her feel rather stronger.

"Do you mind telling me when you did come in, Pam? I ask for a reason."

"Well, if you seriously want to know," answered the younger girl rather stiffly, "I was in just in time to change for supper--and supper was at eight o'clock--later than usual. That was because Mum had put the food back thinking you and Addie would be home."

"Ten to eight?"

"Well, why not? It was nearly dark, but the moon had begun--besides, we'd been mewed up indoors an awful lot with the rain."

Pamela was throwing out little feelers of excuse--as it were--for her wanderings round Woodrising, in case she had been seen. Somebody had told Christobel something, she believed firmly, and her defensive instinct made her rather stiff.

"Well, I was meaning about ten minutes to ten--not eight," said the elder girl.

They looked at each other searchingly.

"I was in bed before that," said Pamela. "I don't know the least what you are talking about, Crow, but you seem to have a lively maggot in your brain about me."

"It isn't anything in my brain--it's a question of the eyesight of two people."

"Who's the other person?"

"Addie. We both saw you----"

"Oh dear," ejaculated Pamela in an exasperated voice, "do you mean to say you think you saw me out of doors just before ten o'clock, because you may as well disabuse your mind of the idea at once. Addie doesn't count, he leaps to conclusions. He'd say the Little Pilgrim was me for two pins, and believe it if he was in an imaginative mood. Well, you did not see me, Crow."

"My dear girl, I'm awfully sorry you feel vexed about it."

"Wouldn't you be vexed, if people practically told you you were telling lies," said Pamela, fingering the pages of her book with unsettled fingers.

"I don't. I assure you I don't," said Christobel urgently "but please do look at our side of the question. Now listen, Pam. We got in to Five Trees about 9.25, we came straight along with a moon as bright as day, and just before we came to Folly Ho corner we heard some one running. I thought it sounded like a girl--unless it was a boy in running shoes--the feet were so light. Of course we were interested--down past the little grass patch at the crossroad came you----"

Pamela made a gesture of speaking.

"All right, then," went on Crow, "not you--a girl so exactly like you that there was no difference. She had a dark skirt and jumper--like yours--it was most certainly blue--lighter stockings and shoes--I mean not black. She had no hat on, and a heavy tail of plaited hair hanging down. As she ran I saw it swing--like yours does. Now, are you surprised we thought it was you?"

"What did you do?" asked Pamela.

"Simply stared. Then Addie gave a whistle shriek, fearfully loud. She stopped and looked over her shoulder, then she ran on. Honestly I admit we were savage. Just consider, Pam; it appeared to be you beyond question, and we naturally concluded you were just out for the fun of it, and didn't want us to see you. Of course it looked as though you didn't mean to stop on purpose."

"Funny," allowed Pamela in a milder tone, "well, what did you do next? I suppose you saw where this very surprising girl went to?"

Christobel felt this was the weak part of her story, but she told it conscientiously.

"I see. So the girl was swallowed up by the cloud! Are you sure you ever saw her at all, Crow?"

"Never was so sure of a thing in my life," declared Christobel, slipping off the table edge, and going to the window-seat, where she took a more comfortable seat, "we saw the girl. Who she is, I don't pretend to say, as you say she is not you. It was just in that bit of road outside Woodrising that we lost sight of her. Thinking she was surely you I made Addie go into Fuchsia Cottage and ask Miss Lasarge."

"Why--on earth?" demanded Pamela, with a little frown of annoyance, as she shut her book smartly.

"Why? Because I thought you'd gone in there. It was the only way to account for your disappearance."

"For hers, you mean."

"Yes; of course. Only, remember we were certain it was you then."

"What did the Little Pilgrim say?" asked Pamela, with an accession of interest, as she pulled herself up in the chair, swinging her slim feet rather restlessly.

"Oh, nothing much. She just listened, and said you weren't there, and you hadn't been, and she was sure it couldn't be you--that was all. We thought she seemed rather nervous--rather sort of hesitating--but it might have been our fancy. You see, Pam, I was so sure it couldn't be anyone but you, that I had a feeling the Little Pilgrim thought it was, but meant to hold her tongue. She's such a little angel of kindness she'd always shield anybody she thought might be risking a fuss."

"I daresay," allowed Pamela in a non-committal way; then she added, "well, are you satisfied now, Crow? I can only tell you again that I was in bed--at that time."

"My dear old girl, if you say you were not the person we saw, there's an end," answered Christobel warmly, yet even as she spoke she was faintly uneasy--Pamela was keeping something back. She was sure. However, there was no more to be said. She changed the subject.

"Addie's bathing," she said, "he loves bathing in the rain, and at the present moment it is pouring anchors and marlinespikes--where's Hughie?"

Pamela was just going to say where she thought Hughie was, but changed the information to a vague:

"Oh--somewhere. You're not going to fetch the yawl back to-day then, Crow?"

Christobel said the tide would serve much better in the afternoon a bit later. It could be done now, but they would have to be home by five o'clock, or they'd have the whole weight of the ebb against them.

"Better to have an hour or so to spare," she added cheerfully and went out.

Pamela remained sitting in her nest, swinging her feet and thinking--thinking. "Then there was something in Mollie's and Hughie's accusation." She had come away yesterday from her venture at Woodrising persuaded that the whole thing was "tosh"--that Sir Marmaduke had kindly given a lift to Mrs. Chipman for old time's sake--being in the neighbourhood himself, perhaps for business reasons. It was so natural that Mrs. Chipman should pay a visit to Mrs. Trewby, for they were acquaintances of old days.

Last night, before she fell asleep, she felt assured that both Mollie and Hughie had made a mistake somehow--unlikely as it seemed. Now, the whole thing was awake again, and positively demanding attention. Poor Pamela felt the least bit gloomy about it; first, because she had read somewhere that if a person has a "double" in the world they are sure to die promptly; secondly, because she was becoming a butt for false accusations on all sides. She felt instinctively that Crow, her best friend, was a little suspicious, and Addie, of course, would be frankly sceptical. Only Hughie believed her. Hughie was a very wise person, not to be despised as a partner in difficulty.

She slipped to her feet, and left the room, ran upstairs, and stood quietly listening at the top of the back stairs. No one was about. The voice of Mrs. Jeep conversing profoundly with Keziah, the house parlour-maid, was the only sound audible. The wide front stairs mounted from the hall into the long corridor, and were not used by servants. The backstairs came up from the kitchen passage to a lobby shut off by a green baize door, and went on upwards to the attics, which were large and charming rooms, with many cupboards, and the most perfect views in the house, out of quaint dormer windows.

There were four at least and wide passage space also.

Mrs. Jeep owned one; Keziah and Patty Ingles the between-maid shared another. One was a spare room for chance servant visitors, and the end one over Pamela's and Hughie's rooms was what is called a "box" room. Here was "luggage"--big, old-fashioned trunks, leather portmanteaux, large hat boxes. Neat piles of cardboard boxes--the sort that drapers and dressmakers send out--all sizes, and tidy stacks of brown paper--sacking--cords--all the odds and ends necessary for packing of any kind. There were chairs with burst cane seats, and baths needing paint, cans that leaked, and baskets damaged in various ways--these had waited through the war to be mended, and waited still for workers; Mrs. Romilly was a most methodical, tidy person and detested waste.

Besides all this was the old nursery property of "dressing-up" chests--clothes for charades in winter--a rocking-horse, and the dolls' houses; the thousand-and-one things that belong to a family of children.

Hughie loved it all with a deep and faithful love. Secretly he played with the dolls' houses, and set the small china-headed dolls round the loaded tables for their silent meals with affectionate care. Pamela knew all about these matters, but she was far too loyal to betray the secret.

When she came into this big chamber of treasure trove she stood still and looked round. The fact that nobody was visible did not convince her that nobody was there.

"Hullo!" she said in a low voice.

"Hullo!" returned a small voice in an absorbed tone.

Pamela crossed the room and looked over a barricade of lumber. At first sight it seemed that a heavy oak dower chest, topped by a pile of boxes, was set against the wall. It was not. Between its bulk and the wall of the attic there existed a narrow space--so narrow that it would not appear possible as a retiring place even for the smallest boy.

Pamela looked over--as has been stated--and dropped a small paper bag.

"I brought you some chocolates," she said.

"Thanks," murmured Hughie in a slow drawl. Squeezed between the chest and the wall he was absorbed in most intricate stitchery. On his knee was set a cardboard box full of bits and scraps--both white and coloured--wee spars, small lengths of catgut, bits of fine wire. Also, sitting very upright, two neatly smiling dolls, with bran-stuffed bodies and china heads, dolls about three inches long--the large kind held no attractions for Hughie.

"How are you getting on, Midget?" asked Pamela with sympathy.

"It's rather trying," said the dressmaker, "their arm-sleeves fray out of the holes, and the button-holes are simply fearful. But they must have the things."

"They'll look jolly nice when they are finished," said Pamela, "can't I help you?"

Hughie rejected help.

"I've made a white ensign for the new boat," he said, nodding towards the tiny flag that lay finished on the box-top.

"Ripping!" exclaimed Pamela, picking up the bit of work. It was most beautifully made. Seeing her undoubted admiration Hughie fished out of his coloured heap a fine cord to which were attached a succession of wonderful little flags and burgees in many colours and designs.

"Signal halyards," he said, "it took me weeks--and months. It's the whole code."

"Hughie, you are rather surprising," said Pamela, as she examined the extraordinary result of skill and patience. Then she pushed the boxes a little to one side and seated herself on the corner of the oak chest.

"I rather wanted to tell you something," she began.

"I know," said Hughie, adding as she paused in surprise, "is it about the pig-tail girl?"

Pamela told him what had happened, and what Christobel had asked her.

Hughie made no comment.

"I wish they hadn't gone to Fuchsia Cottage and asked Miss Anne about it," went on Pamela thoughtfully, "the more people who are dragged into it, the more bother it will be to----"

"To what?" inquired Hughie, without looking up.

"Well, I was going to say--to find out. Then I remembered that probably there isn't anything to find out. I mean, if there is a girl she is probably a relation of Mrs. Trewby's."

"I suppose you think she lives at Woodrising?" suggested Hughie cautiously.

"Crow said she disappeared just outside that wall--when a cloud made it dark. They thought she'd run on into Fuchsia Cottage gate--you see."

"I know. It was the other gate more likely," said Hughie in a deliberate manner.

"Well, I daresay. I don't see where else she can be living. But what I mean is, Hughie, that it's not exciting. I thought I'd just try and find tracks--or something definite--so I went all round Woodrising yesterday evening. One can't get in; besides, I hadn't the cheek to go and ring at the gate-bell and say 'Have you a girl like me anywhere about?' I couldn't do it, so I just----"

"Scouted," suggested Hughie, as he threaded a fine needle with silk with a view to button-holes, "you got it out of your Scout book."

Pamela coloured faintly.

"I rather tried to do as they say in the Rules, but there weren't any tracks outside. Then I got over the end wall; there was a ladder against it outside, and I'm perfectly certain Peter Cherry uses it for a short cut. Inside there was a manure heap--not a smelly one--straw chiefly for marrows--so there was a good place to jump into. The garden was appallingly wet; and you never saw anything like the bushes, Midget--one mass. I saw Peter's bootmarks as plain as a house--and then I found nice narrow shoes like mine, and made sure I'd got a clue, but it occurred to me that they might easily be my own feet! I'd been going up and down, and in and out--such a lot of paths and all so much alike----"

"Next time I'd put a trail of pebbles if I were you," suggested Hughie.

"You mean like Hop-of-my-thumb did, when he found the birds ate his bread-crumbs?"

"Or," said Hughie, pausing in his work, "you could blaze a trail on the bushes. That's easy enough--tiny little breaks in the twigs--and leaves stuck on the ends of them. I would."

"Yes," agreed Pamela thoughtfully, "if I go again I will. Well, anyway I had to hide, because two women came from the house and went to the end of the garden. One was Mrs. Trewby--looking as yellow as marmalade--and the other was that maid Baker. Lady Shard had her for years, and she married the London butler. Her name is Mrs. Chipman now. Do you remember her, Midget?"

"She came to tea with Mrs. Jeep when she was dressed in black. I hated her," said Hughie, "she says silly things to people about being mischievous. She calls it 'mischeevious'. She doesn't understand anything."

"She'd talk the hind leg off a donkey," said Pamela with contempt. "I should think the butler was very thankful when he died and could get away from her voice--it clacks. I couldn't remember her at first, and I was so busy remembering that I forgot to notice what she said--it was all about people, though--you know how that kind of person talks. They went back past me to the house, and then the Chipman female began shouting for her dog, and I was so fearfully afraid of being caught that I fled along the path over the wall and came home."

"How did you know she was calling the dog?" asked Hughie, opening the paper bag and looking into it with interest. "How do you know she wasn't calling the other girl?"

"Couldn't have been; she called 'Countess, Countess, Countess', just how people call dogs, and that sort of person usually call dogs by that kind of name; and the dogs are usually big, fluffy ones which never do what they're told. Oh, it was a dog right enough, I'm sure. Well, that's all. It isn't a very bright prospect is it, Midget?"

"Not very," allowed Hughie; "what time is it, Pam?"

Pamela, consulting a wristlet watch, said it was about twelve. It must be, she concluded, because her watch was a quarter to one. "I calculate it to be over half an hour fast towards the end of the week," she told him, "then I begin fresh on Sundays. It's a bother, because you forget and are sure to be late for breakfast. However, it can't be helped."

"Don't tell anybody I'm here," Hughie requested, finishing the chocolate and smoothing out the bag. Paper bags came in usefully at times.

"Not Mother, do you mean? She may ask."

"I don't mind her, but not the others, Pam. It's impossible to sew properly when people come bothering about and asking questions."

Pamela promised, and departed light-footed.

In the corridor she met her mother, who promptly asked where was her youngest son.

"He's all right, Mummy--sewing, in the cave," said Pamela, "and he doesn't want anyone to know."

"All right. I shan't tell," said Mrs. Romilly, smiling. Then she asked about the yawl, and the plans of the older pair about fetching her from Salterne.

Pamela related what she knew, so far as it went. In a day or two the tide would serve better, as there would be a later ebb in the afternoon.

"The fact is, Miss Chance would rather like to make a shopping expedition to Salterne the same day--and couldn't she come back in the boat?" asked Mrs. Romilly, innocent of all this involved--as mothers so often are.

The silence that ensued was so full of meaning, that Mrs. Romilly answered it as though her daughter had spoken.

"I think, darling child, that you ought--all of you--to make things as nice for Miss Chance as you can. There are no regular lessons just now, because of Addie being sent home, and Crow finishing up at Easter; besides, it will soon be Whitsuntide now; but I think we ought to try and make it as pleasant for her as possible, don't you? She is always most kind."

"Oh, yes, awfully kind," agreed Pamela hastily, "but Mother, are you sure she likes going on the yawl? You know she'd be rather a responsibility for Addie and Crow; she doesn't understand a boat, she stands on the gunwale and expects the boat to wait as if it were a stone step! She truly might get drowned rather easily, you know, and what could they do, if she fell overboard?"

"I see," murmured Mrs. Romilly thoughtfully, "yes, I see. Well, she might come back by train. I'll talk to her about it. At the same time, if she really wishes to go by sea, I'm sure it will be all right."

To this Pamela said nothing, but she formed an inward resolve that she would have nothing to do with this expedition.

CHAPTER VIII

"Little Friend of all the World"

On a certain evening, a couple of days or so after this, the sky cleared beautifully, and the sun went down with grand promise of fine weather again.

Miss Chance was correcting French exercises in the library when Adrian and Christobel entered, very hot and triumphant--the Bell House lawns were mown to perfection, and to-morrow would suit in all ways for the fetching back of the yawl.

"It must be done to-morrow," Adrian threw himself with a crash on the springy sofa, "must be--we can't leave the Messenger at Salterne any longer. She must be on her moorings by this time to-morrow."

"I hope you will have a fine day, then," said Miss Chance, placing papers aside in a neat heap, "you had a terrible storm the day of your last expedition--terrible. I always think though that thunder and lightning and such terrors must be sent for some good purpose--to teach us something."

"They teach you not to leave your oilskins behind," suggested Adrian from the floor.

"Oh, hush, dear boy--is that quite nice?" said the excellent woman in a shocked voice--and then changing the subject with rather laboured vivacity she went on:

"Really I wish dear Pam would concentrate more. She is having so few lessons now that she ought to be giving of her very best. One would think her mind was entirely distracted. I told her so, and her reply was most unconvincing--she said if she had twelve times as much to do she would do it twelve times as well! Most unreasoning."

"I don't agree with you, my dear Floweret," said Adrian, "I agree with Pam. If you are in for a fearful grind--well, there you are--you grind; you get acclimatized, so to speak, like people living on the west coast of Africa. After a bit you thrive on the beastly thing--in fact revel in it. Whereas if you make a snatch at it--well, there's a hopeless failure."

Good Miss Chance gave a crackling laugh; she was devoted to Adrian, especially when he slapped her on the back and called her the Floweret, or "my good Blossom"--in cheerful allusion to her pretty name. She plunged into argument with zest therefore.

"The west coast of Africa," she said, "is not nearly so subject to pestilence and dangerous malaria as it used to be. Advancing science has taught us how to deal with these things--and what has it to do with French exercises! I am sure you cannot be thinking reasonably. What else can be expected from your position, which is exactly the opposite to what was intended for the use of a sofa."

"I know," said Adrian, "I am aware of that, Miss Chance. But I never was a Conservative. My opinions might be classified as Republican-Imperialist. Let me reason with you. If the legs are on the sofa, and the head is on the floor, blood flows freely to the brain, and it swells with astonishing rapidity. Result, a vigorous crop of ideas. I'm full of them at this moment--my brain is, that's to say. They are sprouting so rapidly that I shall be able to impart to you information on many subjects in a brace of jiffs."

Miss Chance was about to plunge into further depths, when Christobel intervened politely.

"Don't listen to him, Miss Chance, he is talking the worst kind of piffle--suppose we go to bed. Addie, get up, your head was never intended for a carpet-cleaner. Come along and say good-night to Mum, she's gone up because she had a headache."

Crow stood up and stretched. Adrian, after a violent effort to get on to the sofa by muscular effort alone, came on to his feet in the ordinary way, and proceeded to shake himself into his garments with some regard to appearance.

"Now I wonder," said Miss Chance, gathering all her properties into order, and replacing some in drawers, "I wonder whether you two would give me a lift to-morrow. I want a day's shopping in Salterne, or some hours anyway--why shouldn't I go in with you--and sail out?"

There was one short pause strenuous with meaning! Then Crow, as usual, met the difficulty.

"If you want to shop, Miss Chance, it wouldn't fit in, you see we should have to go to the harbour and get the yawl out--and home. I am sorry, but really it would be difficult to get time for shopping, wouldn't it, Addie?"

"Well, well, we will discuss the matter in the morning," said Miss Chance, not in the least offended. She certainly was a "goodhearted soul," as Crow impressed on Adrian going upstairs.

"She may be," he declared desperately, "but her good heart won't be much use in the boat. She'll most likely be drowned, and we shall be responsible."

The depths of gloom are speedily reached.

Mrs. Romilly was sitting in an arm-chair before a little fire. She said she was cold after all that rain. She was dressed in a loose gown of the colour matching her eyes, and her lovely hair--just like Pamela's--was hanging round her like a shawl.

"I'll brush that," said Christobel firmly.

Adrian sat down on the fender-stool with his back to the fire and looked dejected.

"Is your head bad--or better, Mummy, dear?" asked Christobel, proceeding to the business of brushing. "Addie and I have been talking to Miss Chance, or we should have come sooner."

Mrs. Romilly said her head was better, also that she was very pleased they'd been talking to Miss Chance; finally she wanted to know if anything had been said about the sail from Salterne.

"If you go, and when you go," she concluded, "she wants to go in with you--walk to Five Trees, I mean, and sail home."

"I don't think she'll enjoy it much, Mother," ventured Christobel.

"Why not, dear--you do?"

"Yes, but you see we don't mind knocking about, and wet, and spells of discomfort--she might be sick, most people are."

Mrs. Romilly was not blind to the trend of feeling.

"I don't see why she shouldn't have a try," she suggested mildly, "if she is ill, or hates it, she needn't go again. After all, poor thing, she never has been."

"Well, Mother, you see it was Sir Marmaduke's affair before this, wasn't it? And such a crowd with Penberthy and Mollie--as he didn't ask Miss Chance, we couldn't force her in, could we?"

"Well, there won't be a crowd now," persisted Mrs. Romilly, "even if you all go--only five."

"Only five!" Christobel looked at Adrian over her mother's head, she said the two words with her lips--soundlessly--and smiled.

But Adrian would not smile.

"If she'd been with us the other day, in the thunderstorm, she wouldn't have wanted to go again," said the boy darkly, "she'd have been in fits."

"But, darling, I thought you said it was lovely?" this, from his mother in an expostulating voice.

Christobel warned, with raised eyebrows, and headshakes.

"So it was when the storm was over," said Adrian, refusing to see the signals, "but she wouldn't have enjoyed the process of working through it. Of course we did," he added quickly, "we enjoy anything, no matter how beastly--but when it comes to being drenched, and battered, and shaken up, Miss Chance mightn't. And you see, Mum, we can't put her ashore--that's flat. If she comes, she must come. I can't undertake to land people."

"You landed Hughie one day."

"That was a dead calm."

"Well, but supposing there is a calm to-morrow?"

"If there is we shall go straight back to Salterne, that's all--and sleep on the boat," announced Adrian desperately; "surely Miss Chance would find it pretty uncomfortable to have to sleep on the yawl with four other people, and not even a toothbrush among the lot."

The unfortunate part of this episode was that it did not achieve its object, but only succeeded in making Mrs. Romilly firmer on the contested point. She did not believe in the discomforts Adrian had mentioned--which were perfectly true, of course--because they had been kept from her before.

She thought the young ones did not want Miss Chance to go--they certainly did not, but the reasons put forward were strictly facts.

She was sweet and sympathetic, but her mind was made up.

"Please make it as nice and easy for her as possible, dear children," she said; "I depend on you, Crow; after all she has never yet been on the yacht."

There was no more to be said of course. Christobel gave way without another word. Adrian was silent, but when they were saying "good-night" he suggested quite amiably:

"We'll give the Floweret as good a time as we know how, Mum, and by the way, it's only fair to remember it isn't our fault she's never been out in the Messenger--she's always been away in the holidays when we did all the sailing--and Sir Marmaduke was here."

Mrs. Romilly protested that she knew all this. The yawl had never been at their service in term-time before--Adrian being absent.

"Perhaps this is the beginning of good times," she said; "perhaps she will make a first-rate sailor."

Brother and sister looked at each other speechless, when they got outside. Then Crow whispered:

"Are we downhearted?" and sped away to her room, head turned over her shoulder with her lips forming a very decided "No--o--o."

Adrian stood at his window presently looking out at the sweet breathless night. There was no air, the stars were clear. "If it's a calm she'll be sick," he thought, "poor old Blossom"--and peace descended on his soul.

So the matter was settled, and, in order to give Miss Chance time for her shopping, the young Romillys went by an earlier train from Five Trees. They did not mind that at all. Adrian wanted to get to his beloved Messenger--the sooner the better.

The party consisted of four--because Hughie was included. Pamela simply declined. She wouldn't say why or wherefore. She looked at the others during breakfast remarking that four was an even number.

"All agog to dash through thick and thin," she murmured, "Crow can shop with Miss Chance and Hughie can go with Addie to the yawl. Three people jostling each other in front of shop windows is never comfortable, and I hate sitting on a hot deck at anchor. Home is nicer."

They all went off gaily, Miss Chance carrying a string bag besides her bag-purse, to Crow's annoyance. She could not bear "walking with a string bag," she said. However Miss Chance could not be parted from it. The necessary food was to be bought in Salterne, and they were to start back after lunch, and come home with the tide.

It sounded perfectly charming, not a hitch. Mrs. Romilly was well pleased. She and Pamela had lunch together, and the peace of the house was balm. The day held fine--very fine. About two o'clock there was about as much air as you would expect under a vacuum bell.

Pamela called her mother's attention to it.

"Oh, I expect they've got some wind even if we haven't," said Mrs. Romilly; "I shan't worry, and, Pam dear, tea at half-past four, for you and me--and after that will you go up to Clawtol and get some eggs from Mrs. Ensor? A dozen or two dozen even--we eat such a lot now Addie has taken to demanding hard-boiled ones for the yacht. If I can't get enough from Clawtol, we must try the Badgers at Champles to-morrow or next day."

Pamela did not mind in the least. She had a plan in fact. Why not come back by Woodrising? A basket of eggs would prove her business. She need not do anything--at the same time she felt she could not rest till she obtained some knowledge of her "double". Having settled that the girl did not exist, she had been shaken out of that security by Christobel's surprising questions and confusion of her identity. It was not possible to pass it over. Fate had sent her another free day, clear of "family"; she must have one more attempt at Woodrising.

She and her mother followed the thought of Messenger's return with interest.

"If there had been a good wind they might have reached the lighthouse by now," said Pamela, spreading her bread and butter with a thankful heart, "as it is----"

"What? 'As it is'" asked Mrs. Romilly.

"Well, Mummy dear, no wind. What can they do? They'll be coming down the estuary about now--perhaps crossing the bar. Miss Chance won't feel the swell till they get really out--a good way."

"Are they bound to feel the swell?"

"Mummy, they are. I can assure you it's the sort of heaving that makes one try hard not to think of bacon grease. If you do, you're sorry."

"Poor Miss Chance," said Mrs. Romilly, and laughed.

Pamela looked at her with eyes that were grey-green--sometimes they were blue, sometimes grey--it depended on the sky and the atmosphere.

"I'm rather afraid," she remarked, "that a bit of bad luck is coming to those poor ones. There is a mist. You know how it begins. Bits of ragged chiffon seem to float past one, going nowhere in particular. There isn't a breath of air, and yet a cold kind of draught has arrived."

"I am sorry," said Mrs. Romilly, with feeling, "but a fog won't prevent their getting home. If they keep close in, the cliffs are so very obvious."

Pamela made no comment on this; she simply said it certainly would not prevent her walk to Clawtol for the eggs, while through her mind ran the idea that nothing could be better than a good thick white mist--such as they got in perfection at Bell Bay--for her mystery hunting expedition.

She kissed her mother and went, feeling joyous and independent. Her plan was cut and dried, so to speak, all settled--and when plans are like that they are very apt to turn topsy-turvy, and land people where they least expected to be.

Pamela went the usual way, across the lawns, out by the wicket that led to the beach, and very slowly up the steep cliff road past Crown Hill lodge gates and on up to Hawksdown. A sea fog has the effect of producing a feeling of loneliness. It cuts you off, and it makes voices and distant noises sound different. She went on till she reached the summit, and arriving there, went along cautiously towards the cliff edge, to see if the Messenger might be within sight.

The land on top of the Beak was very wild, desolate even; as it sloped very slightly downward to the cliff edge it behoved a wanderer to go cautiously. The Beak was not perpendicular. It could be climbed by an expert, or even an agile, clear-headed person like Pamela, but as she said to herself, "It was not the sort of thing you'd pick out to do, unless you had a very strong mood on."

She thought that as she looked over, and out to sea. No sail was within her vision. The water was visible, but through a fluff of thick white haze, that moved with the ceaseless shift of a kaleidoscope. Very dazzling. It made her giddy to watch the curious floating rags of it--coming, coming, ever thicker. If the yawl were close she could not be seen.

Of course it will be understood that the bluff of a headland is not a narrow point. It is a long stretch of wild high land that juts out to sea. There are such things as actual peaks sticking out to seaward, but these are rock, sheer, bare rock, to be found--some at any rate--in the Channel Islands, where you see most kinds of rocky headland in every weird shape.

But the Beak on which Pamela stood was a very blunt beak. The lighthouse lay perhaps half a mile to the south--invisible from the top--and Bell Bay was certainly half a mile to the north; all between was wild cliff trending outward like a huge bent elbow.

Pamela sat down on a gorsy hump, and looked towards Ramsworthy and Netheroot sands. She could not see them because of the fog. Nor could she see any sail. It was profoundly lonely, except for the sea-birds which kept up a constant wailing cry. They had noticed a human being appear on the scene, and instantly rose in whity-grey clouds, crying and screaming, circling round and round uneasily. When nothing happened they settled down, and presently there was silence again--complete silence except for one bird, that wailed distressfully at short intervals. From the sound, Pamela thought it was young--or very old--or wounded. It was not quite like the others. However, it was impossible to distinguish, as when it cried all the others rose up and began again.

She sat there perhaps ten minutes, then she went off back to the road, and presently, at the turning, away down to the farm.

Mrs. Ensor was leaning over the gate with the baby in her arms. She greeted Pamela with some satisfaction and said she had plenty of eggs. They went in together to the dairy, and Mrs. Ensor, putting the baby down, proceeded to pick out eggs by dates pencilled on them. Meanwhile she talked.

"Suppose you don't happen to have met with our Reube--which way did you come, Missie?"

Pamela explained.

"I'm afraid he's more like to be Ramsworthy way or, for all that comes to, Folly Ho. Mischeevious young monkey he is to be sure," she sighed, but smiled also with conscious pride in the "mischeevious" one. "For ever up to something--and for looks, why there--you'd think he only wanted a pair o' wings to fly to Heaven."

"He's a dear little boy," said Pamela, "I like Reuben; he's only six, though, isn't he?"

Mrs. Ensor said he was six, but had "double the years of naughtiness in him". It appeared that he had detached himself from the party of children coming from Ramsworthy school, said he'd got enough dinner left to do for his tea, and departed all alone.

"There wasn't one of them with 'thority to make him do as he was told you see, Missie," said the anxious mother, "he knows I want him for all sorts. He's ever such a help. But there, once in a while off he'll go; he never come for his tea, because he know'd I should catch him."

Pamela sympathized secretly with "young Reube". When she said good-bye, she promised to look out for him, and urge upon him to return home speedily. Mrs. Ensor was very grateful.

"That's a weight off me, Missie," she declared. "Six ain't no age when it comes to that, and these sea mists do seem to worrit anybody, sort of squeezing you in."

Pamela departed, carrying her eggs carefully, and pursued her way towards Crown Hill, planning to cut through the park by a foot-track they were allowed to use, and go down into Bell Bay at the back of the valley, thus returning via Woodrising "according to plan". The last thing she saw of the farmer's family was a general action, so to speak, amongst the children and animals in the "muck yard". Into this Mrs. Ensor dived, dispersing the contending arms, and restoring order.

"I'm glad I shan't have to be a farmer's wife," thought Pamela, "it's funny how happy they are." She remembered Reube; then she sat down on a felled log by the edge of the road to think, for a curious conviction had awakened in her mind and, as she stopped, seemed to fill every bit of her brain. Most people understand that feeling of certainty about a thing they know nothing about. It comes of itself and stays. Nothing will argue it away, yet there is no reason why it should be there.

Now the conviction that had taken possession of Pamela's mind was this:

"Young Reube" was in serious trouble on the rugged point of the Beak. And the queer intermittent cry, that she had noted as distinguished from the other bird cries, was the despairing voice of the child calling faintly.

There was no reason at all for this conviction except that Reube had not come back to tea, yet Pamela was convinced it was exactly as she pictured. She sat on for a few minutes thinking. She did not want to give up her plan at all. It was, in fact, a blow--then the danger of going down the Beak was considerable. Pam reviewed the idea of going to Bell Bay and trying to find a man. There was Major Fraser--he would have gone, but he was still lame. Adrian would have gone, but he was on the sea.

Suddenly she remembered that the first duty of a Girl Guide was to help anyone in distress, danger unconsidered. "Little Friend of all the World" was the very pith of the whole matter, "Be prepared" the motto, and secret sign.

Most surely there was only one thing to be done and that was to go and see, and take immediate action if necessary.

As she came to this conclusion, she straightened her shoulders and sat upright. She had been leaning forward with elbows on knees, chin in hands. And, as she moved, she heard a noise close by, and looked round.

By the roadside, a little farther down, was an open-front cart-shed, the sort that has a rickety roof on plank walls and shelters not only carts, but farm machines of various kinds. Pamela got up and walked a yard or two down to look. It might of course be "young Reube" hiding, which would clear her difficulties at once. There was no one in the shed. She went round the side to the back, called softly, "Reuben--Reuben--come out, I want to tell you something." She knew he would come if he were there. No answer, but a hen walked slowly out from the bushes clucking.

"Oh, you idiot!" said Pamela, annoyed. It must have been the hen. She walked slowly back to her basket, picked it up, and went off the way she had come.

CHAPTER IX

The Strange Adventure of the Curlew's Call

Pamela went back steadily the way she had come, and reached the branching of the road with a full appreciation of the work she had set herself to do--supposing that "curlew" cry should be the desperate appeal of poor little Reuben.

The fog was thicker, she could but just see the water at the cliff foot; sometimes not that, because the mist shifted in patches--unequal patches. She sat down to listen, feeling as though she could hear better so. Her only guide would be the cry. Of course her return had caused a perfect bedlam of dismay among the birds, so she had to wait till they were reassured; then, when all was still except the everlasting wash of the water on the rocks, she heard the one wail again.

Listening for it with a new idea in her mind, she wondered that she had ever been deceived into thinking it was a curlew. She tried to place it, and the stillness of the atmosphere helped her. A little to the south of the central point, and down--certainly down.

If Mrs. Romilly could have seen her daughter at that moment she might have been excused for a nervous collapse. Pamela looked about for a safe place in which to dispose of the egg basket, finally planting it between two sturdy tussocks of coarse grass and heather. Then she pulled her little close hat tighter down, shifting the holding pin; looked to her shoe ties; and started onward slowly down the preliminary incline. There was no edge to drop over, instead, a very deceptive slope, that grew steeper and steeper until it became dangerous.

She fully realized what the child had done, and how he had been led astray by the apparent easiness of the first part. Probably some idea of birds' eggs had drawn him on--though it was too late in the season--or it might have been simply adventure. Pamela thought about it as she went on, and wondered why he stayed where he was instead of coming back. It was likely that he had hurt himself.

One of the dangers of this business was starting too fast. In some ways a cliff edge to get over would be less of a snare, because you went over with the full knowledge of your risks.

When she looked back, after perhaps five minutes of cautious descent, it was astonishing to note how a "cliff" had risen up behind her. She seemed to be a long way down, and the height at her back looked amazingly steep too. The time was near when she would have to take to her hands and knees, and crawl--then after a while she would be letting herself down by rock points, strong grass, and the rugged, uneven surface of the real cliff--but there were cracks, and little gullies made by rain and softer soil; these would help.

Every now and then she waited, listening intently, but there was a longish pause in the crying. It occurred to her that she might get an answer by calling--and moreover set at rest any lingering doubt. She called:

"Reuben, Reube, Reube--where are you?" Her voice was clear and pretty, a sweet voice, the sound of it comforting in a way.

Quickly came an answer on a different note to the despairing wail of the earlier call.

"Here--Miss----"

The question was very surely decided. Reuben knew who it was by the politeness of the "miss"--even in extremity. He recognized Pamela's voice. But the "here", was rather baffling! Where was "here"? She would have to find out, and anyway she knew it was Reuben, that was all that mattered much. Pamela started on down once more. Down, and along at the same time, partly because the call suggested it as the right direction, partly because it was easier.

She had to cross a most horrible slope of burned grass--very steep, yet smooth. It gave her some uncommonly ugly moments, but she forced herself not to look down, and on no account to increase her speed. She went by inches, digging her toes and fingers in and resolutely thinking of Reuben and the business in hand--not of possibilities.

"After this comes a nice broken-up bit," she said aloud, to keep herself sensible, "when I go up again, I'll try farther along. These slippery bits are no use."

Having reached the nice broken-up bit aforesaid, she cautiously turned over, and sitting on a big tufty ledge, looked about her.

A little smile flickered round her mouth.

"One in the eye for Addie," she said, "he declared I couldn't get up or down the Beak; and it's worse in a mist."

The mist was distinctly thick now. So much so that the top of the headland was out of sight, and the sea was invisible. She was like a very lonely bird in the middle of an ocean of drifting film. Probably this was what the eagles felt like--high, high up on a rocky peak in the clouds. She was not nervous--it was all so very exciting--but it was important to locate the lost one as soon as possible, because time was going rather fast.

"Hullo, Reube, call again!" cried Pamela.

There was no answer--there had been no cry, she thought, since the "miss" in the beginning. She waited a moment and then tried again. "Reube--I'm close by--I'm come to help you--where are you?"

All the birds started to shriek and scream with delirious riot. They rose in a cloud, and circled round and round. It was maddening.

"Oh you silly idiots," said Pamela.

As the clatter died down into isolated screams, she heard a voice say:

"I bean't afeard o' birds, Miss."

"That's right, Reube," she spoke in a hearty manner, because the words came in a detached weak tone, as though the speaker made an effort to say them.

He must be quite close, she thought.

Down she went again, with infinite care, because the surface of everything was greasy with mist that thickened continually. Down and down, and ever the mutter and wash of waves on rock grew more distinct.

Then the voice called, with more life in it.

"Here, Miss! You do be going too far."

Pamela checked and looked round eagerly. Above her, but more to the Ramsworthy side, in the loneliest and most inaccessible bit of the Beak, was a dark heap, a very little heap; and, small as it was, the great part of it consisted of a hump of coarse grass. On the ledge where this grew clung the human part of the heap.

"I see you," said Pamela, in a cheerful tone.

It was an heroic effort on her part, for, looking at the whole situation, up, down, and round, it was distinctly terrifying. After nearly ten minutes cautious climbing, she came within arm's length of the child.

He was lying on his face, arms grasping a snag of rock at the back of the grass bunch. He had never looked so small to Pamela, and, in an instant, she saw by his face what he had suffered; it was pinched and drawn--stained with tears and dirt.

She laughed. Not because she felt like laughter, but because she had neither water nor food, and something must be done to rouse the failing courage--if they were to get up the fog-shielded height that towered above them.

"I was mortal glad--when I heard you," volunteered Reube, gazing at her with sunken eyes: "I was pretty near asleep."

"Not at all a nice place for a doze;" said Pam, "now what on earth made you come here, young man?"

Reube said: "I dunno, Miss." He did not, of course. He had just started climbing down in a spirit of adventure, and found himself forced to go on in order to find a way up again. Here was the difficulty. Pamela saw that it would not be possible to go straight up from here. A cold thrill of dismay ran through her veins. They must move--they must start moving at once, there was no time to be lost. And she must find out the way of least resistance, so to speak; that way only could she get on with the exhausted child. And she could not see!

The mist dazzled her, wetting every grass blade with a glitter of tiny shining powder. She would have to move upward, even though difficulties forced her to go along the cliff face also. That was all that seemed perfectly clear. Also, and first of all, there was the condition of Reube.

He remained passive, his white face resting on his arm, his hands gripping the grass tussock. There seemed no sort of spring in him, and Pamela looked uneasily at his closed eyes. She realized that he was injured as well as exhausted, and said:

"What's the matter, Reube--where are you hurt?" in very gentle tones.

Reube opened his eyes and tried to pull his scattered wits together.

"It's me leg, Miss--and I'm that dry----" he ceased.

Pamela felt acutely that water was impossible. Then an idea occurred to her--very inadequate, but still something. She spread her handkerchief on the grass--saw that it began to get damp at once--and so left it for a minute, weighted with a little lump of soil, while she looked at the leg.

The obvious injury was a swollen and bruised knee, very blue, and growing bluer. But what she feared more was the appearance of the ankle. The child was wearing rather clumsy laced boots, too large for him, probably his brother's boots. It was probable that the boot had twisted, wrenching the ankle. Pamela hoped that it was only a bad sprain--not a break or a dislocation, but she did not know. The foot certainly looked queer. She wondered if she ought to take the boot off. But the laces were knotted in more than one place, and a terror of interfering seized her.

"If only I knew first aid," she thought miserably.

The moment she got a chance she would learn the whole thing. Therein lay another immense advantage of being a real Guide. She would have known exactly what to do. But ignorant handling might make things very much worse. She moved the foot cautiously, Reube shrank and winced.

She was sure it looked all wrong. Suppose it was broken--what awful pain!

Pamela returned to examination of her handkerchief. It was quite wet--really wet. She pressed it between the child's lips, feeling hopeful.

"Suck it, Reube," she said, "it isn't much, but it might make you feel a wee bit better."

Then she remembered that soldiers sucked pebbles when they were very hard put to it from thirst in front-line trenches. She considered the advisability of giving Reube a wet pebble to suck--if she could find one--there seemed to be none in the least suitable. After all, suppose Reube swallowed the pebble in a moment of half consciousness! That would be worse than anything. She returned to a very settled conviction that the important thing in life was to know first aid, and belong to the Girl Guides, when you would be armed with practical knowledge of what to do in all circumstances.

Reuben seemed the least bit revived. Whether it was the result of her company or of the handkerchief one could not tell, but the time seemed to have come to make a real start, if they were ever to get up the mist-veiled height above them.

From then on--for possibly twenty minutes, when she was completely played out--poor Pam remembered afterwards as a nightmare of the worst kind.

She started by climbing up two feet, and then grasping Reube by the arm, pulled him up to her. She urged him to use his sound foot, and just drag the other. The slowness of the process was exasperating; the difficulty grew and grew, because the climb was steeper and more slippery. She persevered, Reube made heroic efforts--but at the end of fifteen to twenty minutes, he lay a dead weight.

He had fainted.

Pamela felt pretty desperate. They had come up some distance, but much of the time had been spent in going a long round, that was bound to be, because she was forced to pick the best foothold. Not much useful progress had been made, and what now? She could not revive the child. He might even be dead!

Pamela spoke aloud to herself.

"Well, dead or alive, I've got to get him up;" her teeth were set in this determination.

After resting for a few minutes she took sure footing, tested her position, and then, putting an arm around Reube's waist, heaved up the small body to a place perhaps a foot higher. This process she repeated six times. She had gained perhaps eight feet, but she was very tired. The child remained inert, with closed eyes.

Pamela rested again. This time her lips trembled just a little, and she blinked her eyes as she stared fixedly along that awful slope. It was so fearfully steep, and the foothold more and more slippery. If only someone would come! She had not called, because she knew there was no one about on the top of the cliff, and it seemed waste of breath and strength. She understood the curious stolidity of villagers. Supposing anyone passed along the road at the top he would take no notice of cries--probably would not hear.

Had there been no fog, Addie might have seen her and climbed up. Surely the yawl must be somewhere below, cut off from vision by that mass of elusive shifting whiteness. Then she remembered that there was also a calm, a dead breathless calm. Perhaps the yacht had not passed Heggadon, and might have to go back to Salterne when the tide turned.

Everything was against her, and against being found, because all the attention would be for the yawl and not for herself; it would be taken for granted she was safe on land. She remembered that the Floweret would certainly have said: "Where can dear Pamela have gone to! Surely she is very late." That might have drawn people's attention, but even the Floweret was lost to her now. There was positively no hope of help. Reuben's life, and her own too, for that matter, depended on her own unaided efforts.

She took a long breath, thought of all sorts of things in a queer rush of resolution to do what hundreds--thousands--of brave men and women had done in the fighting years. After all this adventure was not unlike getting a wounded comrade into safety from the lonely perils of No Man's Land. If a wounded man could do it for another one worse wounded--surely she, who was sound, could do it for this little creature.

That was about the reasoning of her mind if it were analysed--but, of course, it all passed like a flash of realization, she did not reason. Then she began again, and had gone up in the same way another five feet, hardly more, when a sick feeling of fright seemed to choke her--she could not get higher. She had come to a place that was so steep as to be practically a wall. It was like that for some ten feet, after which it looked easier--but just here it was sheer. She must try and get round it, as it were--shift herself and the boy along. To that end it would be better to explore alone first--find out where her best road lay and come back for Reube? The question was dare she leave him, would he move if he returned to consciousness, and roll down into the sea.