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"What will he do?" Nada asked breathlessly.

"He'll come back pretty soon as though nothing had happened. That's about all—all you'll see, anyhow."

A small gloved hand reached McGuire's arm, gripping it; and she demanded eagerly, in whispered excitement: "But what will he do—just what?" From her early childhood she had heard stories of his daring.

McGuire smiled mistily, shaking his head and casting a gesture toward the end of the room: "There's no knowing what he is going to do—ever."

"But what do you think he might do? He will do something!"

"Oh, yes, he always does something. The Flying Gull—he knows her—is out in the bay. She is fast, isn't she? Nobody is watching her, is there? Three or four sailors on board, perhaps, but not expecting visitors, are they? Well?"

Nada's dark eyes stared at him, questioning his meaning, expecting that he would continue, say something more; then she glimpsed the idea, and cried softly: "Oh, he will steal the yacht." She was almost gleeful.

"No, no, oh, no! No—oh," said McGuire. "The skipper wouldn't do that. But since Penwenn's taken such a fancy to the Islander—why, Williams might trade with him. I've seen him do a little trading that way now and then."