Suddenly, from the wet, gray blanket ahead came a call. It was a good way off when I first heard it, a call in a clear voice, a feminine voice it seemed to me. “Hello!” I did not answer. I took it for granted that the call was not addressed to me. It came probably, from the beach at the Point, and might be Mrs. Small hailing her husband, though it did not sound like her voice. Several minutes went by before it was repeated. Then I heard it again and nearer. “Hello! Hello-o-o! Where are you?” That was not Mrs. Small, certainly. Unless I was away off in my reckoning the Point was at my right, and the voice sounded to the left. It must come from some craft afloat in the bay, though before the fog set in I had seen none. “Hello-o! Hello, the motor boat!” “Hello!” I answered. “Boat ahoy! Where are you?” “Here I am.” The voice was nearer still. “Where are you? Don't run into me.” I shifted my helm just a bit and peered ahead. I could see nothing. The fog was thicker than ever; if that were possible. “Where are you?” repeated the unseen voyager, and to my dismay, the hail came from the right this time. “Don't move!” I shouted. “Stay where you are. I will keep shouting . . . LOOK OUT!” Out of the fog to starboard a long dark shadow shot, silent and swift. It was moving directly across the Comfort's bow. I jammed the wheel over and the launch swung off, but not enough. It struck the canoe, for it was a canoe, a glancing blow and heeled it down to the water's edge. There was a scrape, a little scream, and two hands clutched at the Comfort's rail. I let go the wheel, sprang forward and seized the owner of the hands about the waist. The canoe, half full of water, disappeared somewhere astern. I swung Mabel Colton aboard the launch. I think she spoke first. I do not remember saying anything, and I think it must have been at least a full minute before either of us broke the silence. She lay, or sat, upon the cockpit floor, her shoulders supported by the bench surrounding it, just where I had placed her after lifting her over the rail. I knelt beside her, staring as if she were a spirit instead of a real, and rather damp, young lady. And she stared at me. When she spoke her words were an echo of my thought. “It IS you?” she gasped. “Yes.” “This--this is the third time.” “Yes.” Another interval of silence. Then she spoke once more and her tone was one expressing intense conviction. “This,” she said, slowly, “is getting to be positively ridiculous.” I did not deny it. I said nothing. She sat up. “My canoe--” she faltered. The mention of the canoe brought me partially to my senses. I realized that I was kneeling on the deck of a launch that was pounding its way through the fog with no one at the helm. I sprang to my feet and seized the wheel. That my doing so would be of little use, considering that the Comfort might be headed almost anywhere by this time, did not occur to me. Miss Colton remained where she was. “My canoe--” she repeated.