Down in the engine room Barlow finally located the trouble, and the motor took up its labors, spinning with a rhythmic chatter of valves. The man came up into the pilot house, wiping the sweat from his grimy face. "Gee, I'm sorry, Mrs. Fyfe," he said. "A gas-engine man would 'a' fixed that in five minutes. Took me two hours to find out what was wrong. It'll be a heck of a job to fetch Cougar Bay now." But by luck Barlow made his way back, blundering fairly into the landing at the foot of the path that led to the bungalow, as if the cruiser knew the way to her old berth. And as he reached the float, the front windows on the hillock broke out yellow, pale blurs in the smoky night. "Well, say," Barlow pointed. "I bet a nickel Jack's home. See? Nobody but him would be in the house." "I'll go up," Stella said. "All right, I guess you know the path better'n I do," Barlow said. "I'll take the _Bug_ around into the bay." Stella ran up the path. She halted halfway up the steps and leaned against the rail to catch her breath. Then she went on. Her step was noiseless, for tucked in behind a cushion aboard the _Waterbug_ she had found an old pair of her own shoes, rubber-soled, and she had put them on to ease the ache in her feet born of thirty-six hours' encasement in leather. She gained the door without a sound. It was wide open, and in the middle of the big room Jack Fyfe stood with hands thrust deep in his pockets, staring absently at the floor. She took a step or two inside. Fyfe did not hear her; he did not look up. "Jack." He gave ever so slight a start, glanced up, stood with head thrown back a little. But he did not move, or answer, and Stella, looking at him, seeing the flame that glowed in his eyes, could not speak. Something seemed to choke her, something that was a strange compound of relief and bewilderment and a slow wonder at herself,--at the queer, unsteady pounding of her heart. "How did you get way up here?" he asked at last. "Linda wired last night that Charlie was hurt. I got a machine to the Springs. Then Barlow came down this afternoon looking for you. He said you'd been missing for two days. So I--I--" She broke off. Fyfe was walking toward her with that peculiar, lightfooted step of his, a queer, tense look on his face. "Nero fiddled when Rome was burning," he said harshly. "Did you come to sing while _my_ Rome goes up in smoke?" A little, half-strangled sob escaped her. She turned to go. But he caught her by the arm. "There, lady," he said, with a swift change of tone, "I didn't mean to slash at you. I suppose you mean all right. But just now, with everything gone to the devil, to look up and see you here--I've really got an ugly temper, Stella, and it's pretty near the surface these days. I don't want to be pitied and sympathized with. I want to fight. I want to hurt somebody." "Hurt me then," she cried. He shook his head sadly. "I couldn't do that," he said. "No, I can't imagine myself ever doing that."