There was no sound of waking life about the tents. On the beach in front, all sorts and sizes of skiffs were drawn up. They chose the first one that had oars lying in it. The falling tide had left it high and dry, and it required a strenuous effort on Don's part to launch it. At the scraping of the bottom on the sand, a voice issued out of the nearest tent: "Who's that?" A lean and disheveled shadow appeared in the tent opening. "It's Jones," said Don lightly. "Just want to take a lady for a little row." "Oh all right, Jones. Go as far as you like." "I'm popular with the gang," murmured Don dryly. He only had three hundred yards to row to the yacht. It was one thing to decide resolutely to give himself up, and another thing to put it into practice. He took half a dozen strokes energetically, and then loafed at the oars, gazing hungrily at Pen. Pen suddenly conscious of the absurd figure she must be making, put up her hands and unpinning her hair, shook it about her shoulders. Don drew in his oars, and creeping aft caught up the dark tide and pressed it to his lips. "Oh, why do you do that now?" he groaned. "You are so beautiful that way?" Pen caught his head against her breast. "How can I? How can I? How can I?" she murmured. Don with a sigh went back to his oars. Pen with a twist or two, put up her hair in more becoming fashion. She began to pull out the various lengths of cotton with which she had stuffed out her bodice, and dropped them overboard. Don, the irrepressible, began to laugh shakily. Pen gasped, and laughed too. They looked at each other and laughed softly until they felt weak. "Is that all?" asked Don at last. Pen fishing around inside her dress nodded. "Well, I'm relieved," he said. "Oh, but it's dreadful to laugh now," Pen murmured remorsefully. "It's the only thing to do," said Don simply. He was sober enough when they touched the side of the yacht. He made the skiff's painter fast to the grating at the foot of the ladder, and stepping out, drew Pen up beside him. "Kiss me," he whispered. "Maybe it'll be the last...!" A murmur of pain was forced from Pen's breast. "I mean for a good while," he hastily added. They clung together. His face was wet from hers. The sound of a footfall on the deck overhead caused them to draw apart quickly. "Take the gun in your hand," Don whispered. They went up the ladder, Don in advance. On the deck an astonished watchman faced them. "What do you want?" he demanded. "I am Miss Broome," said Pen. "I want to see Mr. Riever." "He's turned in, Miss." In order to avoid frightening him unduly, Pen kept the pistol hidden in a fold of her skirt. "He must be awakened," she said. "It is important." The watchman, like everybody else on board the yacht, had gathered from watching his master that Pen was a person to be propitiated. "I'll tell him," he said, and disappeared within the deckhouse.