Miles, aching and benumbed, still waited to hear their oars, then ploughed through into the deserted clearing. Beside him stooped the girl, as they tossed aside the loose boughs from the cache. When at last their mittens slid over a glossy surface, he struck a match. The tiny flare revealed a broad lid of polished yellow wood, the corners capped with brass, and a curious, foreign padlock hanging broken on the staple. He saw all this, and yet, even while he threw open the chest, saw more keenly the face above his shoulder,--the pure oval of her cheeks, her large eyes shining from the black shelter of a hood. The first match went out. His second and last lighted the whole depth of the chest, and showed it empty. A faint, persuasive odor lingered within, exotic, alien to the winter air, new to their experience. “What is it?” she whispered. He shook his head, and dropped the burning splinter. “But what are they doing?” “I’m not sure,” he answered slowly. “Nothing that need worry you. Some secret. Come. They’re going clear across the river. We can be home before them.” In starlight they heaped the boughs once more, waded through the belt of firs, and clambered down, hand in hand, toward the beach. All the way to their own shore, and all along the evergreen path from the quarter-deck to Alward’s, a strange silence held them apart. With few words or none, they reached her door; only on the dark threshold she turned to speak, and then, as it seemed, resentfully. “It isn’t like you,” she said; and before he could frame a question, “Why, not to tell me what you really think. That was what I liked about you.” He gave thought to his reply:-- “How can I tell you till I’m certain? That wouldn’t be fair--to any of us. It’s nothing serious.” “If you believe that--” Her manner changed. “I suppose you’re right. But when you’re certain, will you?” “Of course,” he promised. “The first minute I’m sure.” She made an impulsive movement. The darkness had thinned insensibly, yet enough to show her hand outstretched. He clasped it, both for good-by and for the compact. [Illustration] CHAPTER VIII THE OTHER CAMP That compact, as Miles stood waiting before the library fire, seemed reward enough, not only for their lesser troubles of last night, but for whatever might come, of greater. The words, the clasp of hands, the whole twilight scene, still occupied his thoughts so busily that when the latch clicked and Tony entered, he had formed no plan for the expected interview. “Morning,” called the sailor. Fresh and hearty as though he had slept all night, he wore somehow a thoughtful aspect; and his first movement was toward the window, where he paused to study the chessmen. They stood as Richard Bissant had left them, but now, touched by winter sunshine, formed a little plot of brightness, thick-set, like white and scarlet hyacinths.