His friends on the big yacht? What was the fellow talking about? Fessenden repressed a half-uttered question. No need to reawaken the man's slumbering suspicions as to the character of himself and Betty! He settled his bill, and left the "Bazaar," bundle in hand. The shopkeeper's talk had stirred him profoundly. Betty? Good Lord! For the first time he saw how others might look upon their enforced cruise together. She was almost a child, true; but was she near enough to childhood to be beyond the breath of scandal? This was a devilish mess! He could not bear to think of himself in such a light. Far less could he patiently endure that through any fault of his--yet his fault was only his presence--her name should be blackened. What could he do? His feet lagged as he pondered, his head hanging. He knew that Aunty Landis must have borne the news of their disaster to Sandywood. What would thoughtless Polly Cresap say when she learned that he and the farmer's pretty daughter were not drowned after all? And impertinent Harry Cleborne? How would Madge Yarnell judge him? With brooding scorn, perhaps. As for Charlie Danton--Fessenden could picture all-too-clearly his bitter smile, the scar-line twitching the corner of his mouth. By God! he would suffer no sneer from Danton. He wondered if any of the villagers had conveyed to Betty, even by a look, the suspicions that accursed shopkeeper had thrust upon him! He would find her at once. His presence might act as some sort of shield for her. Conscious that some one blocked his way, he glanced up sharply. Charlie Danton stood before him--Danton, not sneering, not even smiling, but watching him very gravely. XI So near had Danton been to Fessenden's thoughts that he was able instantly to connect the Baltimorean's presence with the shopkeeper's talk of the people from the steam yacht. He was the first to speak. "Where's Betty?" "She's with my wife--on the _West Wind_." "Your wife?" "Yes. I was married two days ago." "Danton! You--married? You're joking, old man." "Not in the least. I was married last Sunday--to Madge Yarnell." "Madge Yarnell! What!" "Is Mrs. Charles Danton," said the other. Fessenden was too dumfounded to do aught but stare. His friend slipped an arm through his and turned him about. "There's room for us on the bench there. Let's talk it over. Madge and Betty are doing the same down in the sand-hills now." Fessenden yielded without a word, and they seated themselves on the bench. Danton was a man under thirty years. He was slight and pale, and had much of the abrupt manner of that ancestor who had come to Baltimore in the train of Jerome Bonaparte, and who, like his master, had found a wife there. "You're really married?" said Fessenden. "By Jove! I can't get over it. To Madge Yarnell, too. Then what in the world has become of--of--ah--"