“Let me go back with you, Annie. I--I 'll try not to bother you. I didn't mean to just now. Hang it, I never can trust myself when--” “No, you mustn't come.” “Not even good night, Annie?” But she hurried off without a word into the shadows, and felt her way nervously until she reached the central roadway, where it was lighter. It was now getting on toward nine o'clock, and nothing had happened. Perhaps nothing was going to happen, after all. What with her hope that it all might be a mistake, and her fear that she had come on a fool's errand, Annie was in a pretty state of mind. She did not know what to make of Beveridge; she did not know what to make of herself; the natural thing, apparently, was to get angry with Dick, and this she was rapidly doing. When she was passing the last but one of the lumber piles, hurrying along with less caution than she had used in coming out, a man appeared out of the shadow and blocked the way. She stepped aside and tried to run by, but he, as quick as she, stepped aside too and caught her wrist. Then she saw that it was Beveridge. “Let me go!” she said breathlessly. “No, Annie, wait. You decided to warn him, did you?” “Let me go. You have no right to hold me.” “Yes I have, more right than you know. Now tell me, why did you do it?” “Mr. Beveridge--” “You must wait, Annie. No one is going to hurt you. If you had known what you were doing, you never would have come. It's no place for a woman. But now that you have done this, now that you are here, I think you had better stay and see with your own eyes what you have done. Then perhaps you will believe me.” Poor Annie could say nothing more. Her head whirled. She let him lead her back along the roadway. Close to the spot where she had turned off to reach the schooner Beveridge stopped. In a moment he was joined by another man. “Bert?” “Yes. What is it? Want me to take her home?” “No. Wait here, in case I call. And have an eye on the other boat.” “You aren't going to take her back there?” “Never you mind what I'm going to do.” “But look here, Bill! This is no place for--” “Do what you're told and keep still.” Annie heard this muttered conversation without taking it in. Beveridge still held her wrist, held it tighter than he knew, but she was hardly conscious of this either. She was caught up and whirled along on the high wind of events. She was conscious only of Beveridge, of a new side to his character. The young man she had known on the beach and aboard the _Captain_ had vanished. This Beveridge was hard, irresistible; his manner, the atmosphere about him, spoke of some object that must be reached without regard to obstacles. Her Beveridge had been friendly, considerate; there was nothing considerate about this man. And yet, a part of his object was to convince her that he was right and that Dick was wrong; and she knew why.