Her thoughts circled round the image of Joe as she had last seen him--the vision of him as some one strange and sinister. And the boat--the boat with only Gabriel in it--it kept coming up like a picture revolving on a wheel--going and returning, going and returning. Had he stayed and what for? That question revolved with the picture of the boat. She could not get free of them, their obsessing force held her like a somnambulist staring into the night. She thought of telling Bassett and gave that up--with the police expected she could not get him alone, and why add to his burden with her suspicions? Yes, that was what it was--nothing but a suspicion. She had no certainty, Joe might have been in the boat, Joe might have got off the island some other way. To-morrow something might come to light that would make these hideous fancies seem like the dreams of delirium. That was the state of mind she tried to maintain when she went up-stairs and overheard a man was on guard at the causeway. With that knowledge her outlook changed. Her passive rôle was over. She sat down on the side of the bed and with a grim desperate resolution faced what she had tried to flee. If Joe had done it and if he was on the island he would try to get off at low tide. It was safe to assume that he was outside, hidden till the causeway was open. To go out to find him would be useless, he would never reveal himself to her, and if she was seen suspicion would instantly be aroused. She must get somewhere that would command the causeway and its approaches. Her mind ran over every nook and angle, every shadow and rock ledge between the house and the shore. Impossible--it was too open and the light was like day. The best place--the only place--was the living-room entrance. From there she could see in all directions, the balcony end, the kitchen wing, the pine grove. She would try to wave him back, possibly get to him--she had to take her chances and trust to Heaven. And then he might never come--it might be just an awful nightmare and he was with Jimmy Travers on his way to the northern woods. She dropped her face in her hands and sent up broken words of pleading that it might be so. The tide was at full ebb at midnight. At a quarter before she made ready. She took from the bureau a book she had been reading--if she met any one she could say she had come down to find it--and opened her door with the stealth of a burglar. A dead silence reigned as she stole down the stairs and into the living-room. Here the great line of windows--the moon not yet upon them--shone in gray oblongs diffusing a spectral light that did not touch the darkness under the galleries.