To-day something was a little wrong. Crow frowned at the hooks and racks, as she pinned her hair up under a rubber cap--this and that seemed to have changed places--or she thought so. The cushions on the settees in the saloon were certainly wrong--all on one side. Adrian must have been right about the door; that was perhaps part of the invasion. She thought of calling out to her brother and then decided not to, because if she said anything Addie would make a point of locking up the yawl every night, and the result would be that peculiar something in the stuffiness that always made her feel sick. Christobel was not a perfect sailor like Adrian and Hughie--neither of them could be swept off their balance, but Christobel could. So much so, that she had at times borne agonies in silence rather than spoil Adrian’s day. She was seldom actually sick, but she felt a horrible nausea and faintness, and the one thing that would precipitate this condition was that mixture of paraffin, varnish, cushion stuffing, and station-waiting-room-stale-sandwich smell, that came up from the saloon when the closed doors were opened; for once locked up there could be no ventilation naturally--without water getting in also; not in so small a boat, for the fore-hatch must be battened down and bolted inside before the companion door was locked outside. All this occurred to Crow in time to stop her making remarks on her suspicions. After all, she could not remember who came out of the cabin last. Again Penberthy might have gone on board--he might even have taken Major Fraser with him, which would account for the gravel and dirt marks on the dinghy. Just as she came to this conclusion she heard Adrian’s dive and a few seconds after his shout for her, so she ran up, and went over the side with the clean sweep of a first-rate swimmer. That was the end of questionings--for the time. *CHAPTER XV* *In which Hughie takes Action* It has been said, even in this story, that important situations often arise from ridiculously small happenings. Everybody knows it so well that one apologizes for such a stale reflection. However, in the present instance the thing that led up to the very small happening was tea at Fuchsia Cottage, to which all four were invited, and all four went. The Little Pilgrim’s teas were "things of beauty, and joys for ever", the pleasure never palled, because she had particular scones, buns, cakes and jams that other people knew not of, and her table decorations were as original as they were lovely. She held a theory that people ought to eat a great deal at tea, which was delightful when it fell in with the idea of the guests. There was no "company" about it, from first to last it was sheer satisfaction.