When they ran under the lee of the lighthouse the keeper hailed them. He had recognized Captain Joe. Indeed, he had followed the sharpie with his glass until it reached the Ledge, and had watched its return “with two fools instead of one,” he said. “Anybody sick?” he shouted. Captain Joe shook his head, and the sharpie plunged on and rounded the point into the perfect calm of the protecting shore. Caleb made fast the boat when land was reached, while the captain sprang out. Then they both hurried up Caleb’s garden walk to the cabin door. There was no change in the house. The white china bowl still lay over the supper, the newspaper on the floor; no one had entered since Caleb had left. The captain began a close search through the rooms: inside the clock, all over the mantelpiece, and on the sitting-room table. No scrap of writing could he find that shed a ray of light on Betty’s movements. Then he walked upstairs, Caleb following him, and opened the bedroom closet door. Her dresses hung in their usual places,—all but the one she wore and her cloak, Caleb said. “She ain’t gone for long,” said the captain thoughtfully, looking into the closet. “You wait here, Caleb, and git yerself some breakfast. I may be gone two hours, I may be gone all day. When I find out for sure I’ll come back. I’m goin’ to Noank fust, to see them hands aboard the boat. It’s Sunday, an’ she ain’t a-runnin’.” Caleb waited by the fireless stove. Hour after hour went by. Now and then he would open the front door and peer down the road, trying to make out the captain’s burly, hurrying form. When it grew dark he put a light in the window, and raised one shade on the kitchen side of the house, that the captain might know he was still at home and waiting. About nine o’clock Caleb heard the whistle of a tug and a voice calling for some one to catch a line. He opened the kitchen door and looked out on the wet gloom, that was broken here and there by the masthead lights rocking in the wind. Then he recognized one of the big Medford tugs lying off the dock below his garden; the hands were making fast to a dock spile. Captain Joe sprang ashore, and the tug steamed off. The captain walked slowly towards the porch, entered the kitchen without a word, and sank heavily into a chair. Caleb made no sound; he stood beside him, waiting, one hand grasping the table. “She’s gone, ain’t she?” The captain nodded his head. “Gone! Who with?” asked Caleb, unconsciously repeating the words that had rung all day in his ears. “Bill Lacey,” said the captain, with choking voice. CHAPTER X STRAINS FROM BOCK’S 'CELLO