“Please don't make fun of me, Mrs. Ashwood,” he said with a faint return of his boyish smile. “You know there was no danger. I have only interrupted you in a nap or a reverie--and I can see now that you evidently came here to be alone.” Holding the manuscript more closely hidden under the folds of her cloak, she smiled enigmatically. “I think I DID, and it seems that the tide thought so too, and acted upon it. But you will come up to the hotel with me, surely?” “No, I am going back now.” There was a sudden firmness about the young fellow which she had never before noticed. This was evidently the creature who had married in spite of his family. “Won't you come back long enough to take your manuscript? I will point out the part I refer to, and--we will talk it over.” “There is no necessity. I wrote to you that you might keep it; it is yours; it was written for you and none other. It is quite enough for me to know that you were good enough to read it. But will you do one thing more for me? Read it again! If you find anything in it the second time to change your views--if you find”-- “I will let you know,” she said quickly. “I will write to you as I intended.” “No, I didn't mean that. I meant that if you found the woman less inconceivable and more human, don't write to me, but put your red lamp in your window instead of the blue one. I will watch for it and see it.” “I think I will be able to explain myself much better with simple pen and ink,” she said dryly, “and it will be much more useful to you.” He lifted his hat gravely, shoved off the boat, leaped into it, and before she could hold out her hand was twenty feet away. She turned and ran quickly up the rocks. When she reached the hotel, she could see the boat already half across the bay. Entering her sitting-room she found that her brother, tired of waiting for her, had driven out. Taking the hidden manuscript from her cloak she tossed it with a slight gesture of impatience on the table. Then she summoned the landlord. “Is there a town across the bay?” “No! the whole mountain-side belongs to Don Diego Fletcher. He lives away back in the coast range at Los Gatos, but he has a cottage and mill on the beach.” “Don Diego Fletcher--Fletcher! Is he a Spaniard then?” “Half and half, I reckon; he's from the lower country, I believe.” “Is he here often?” “Not much; he has mills at Los Gatos, wheat ranches at Santa Clara, and owns a newspaper in 'Frisco! But he's here now. There were lights in his house last night, and his cutter lies off the point.” “Could you get a small package and note to him?” “Certainly; it is only a row across the bay.” “Thank you.”