"This is the mischief," I observed to Rufus. "What are we going to do about it, my dog?" Rufus wagged his tail and looked immensely sympathetic, but beyond that he made no attempt to help. "We must find her, Rufus," I went on. "We must find her, even if we have to spend the rest of our lives wandering about Scotland." There was a short pause while we both contemplated this appalling possibility. Then, with a deep sigh, Rufus twisted himself round and began to scratch his ear. I watched him gloomily, wondering what was the best way of setting to work. If I had only had some due, however vague, I could at least have followed it up; but Astarte had gone away from me leaving herself as much a mystery as ever. Apart from sheer luck, my only chance of finding her seemed to lie in tracing the _Penguin_. She had told me she had hired the latter, but when and from whom were matters of which I knew nothing. Still, a boat is a boat, and any yachtsman or yacht-hand about the coast would probably be acquainted with the little three-tonner, at all events by reputation. Of course, even then it by no means followed that I should be very much forrader, for, granted that the owner knew all about Astarte, he might quite conceivably see no reason for confiding in me. It was a pretty little problem, and after pondering over it all ends up I eventually decided that the best thing to do at the moment was to go on to Grendon, as I had originally arranged. In the first place, I couldn't get out of the visit now without appearing rather rude; and, secondly, I was just as likely to pick up some information about the _Penguin_ there as I was anywhere else. Besides I very much wanted to see old Lady Bulstrode. She had always been nice to me when I was a boy, and she was almost the only one of our family friends who was not a confounded prig. So on the Saturday morning, after fastening up the hut, I came back on board the _Scandal_ and pulled up my anchor for the last time. I couldn't help feeling rather sad as we sailed down the little estuary and turned our backs on the island, but Rufus, with the callousness of extreme youth, appeared to be in the best of spirits. Anyhow--he stood up in the bows and barked at the seagulls with a vigour that suggested an entire lack of any decent sentiment. His only excuse for such disgraceful cheerfulness was the weather. It was an ideal September morning, all blue and gold, with a nice breeze off the sea, and that faint delicious crispness in the air that almost reconciles one to the death of summer.