The lone figure that Henry Burns had seen in the skiff had ceased sculling now. He seemed to have no destination in view. The oar was drawn aboard and the skiff drifted with the tide. What the man in the skiff was thinking of—what he contemplated—no one could know but he. But he resumed his sculling, very softly and slowly, after the lapse of a full half-hour. Noiselessly he described a circle about the yacht, drawing in nearer and nearer. Then he paused irresolutely, once more, and waited. Only he could know what would happen next. Perhaps he, too, was racked with uncertainty and irresolution. For once he seized the oar and worked the skiff up to within twenty feet of the gently swinging yacht. Then he paused again and waited. Henry Burns’s sleep might, perchance, have been troubled could he have dreamed of the man now, waiting and watching just off the starboard bow of the _Viking_, while he slept within. But no dreams disturbed his sound slumbers. Nor did aught else disturb them. For, presently, there came out from shore another boat, a rowboat with three men in it. They were laughing and joking about something that had happened ashore. Mr. Carleton, resuming his oar, sculled gently away from the _Viking_, worked his way back again through the fleet of yachts whence he had come, drew the skiff out of water where he had embarked, dragged it up on the beach, and cast it from him roughly. Then he strode away up the bank to the hotel, muttering under his breath, and looking back out over the water once or twice as he ascended the hill, like a man that has suffered an unexpected defeat. CHAPTER XI. SQUIRE BRACKETT IS PUZZLED Henry Burns was up early the next morning, as he had planned. He rowed the dory quickly in to the landing-place, and was in Harvey’s room before that young gentleman was out of bed. “Why, I didn’t hear you get up,” said Harvey. “That’s not so surprising,” replied Henry Burns, “seeing as I got up aboard the _Viking_. I slept there.” “Is that so?” exclaimed Harvey. “I wonder how Mr. Carleton would like that if he knew it. He needn’t have hired so big a room just for me. Say, but he’s a jolly good fellow, though, isn’t he?” “He is certainly a generous one,” answered Henry Burns. Harvey smiled at his companion. “What is it you don’t like about him, Henry?” he asked. “Why, nothing,” replied Henry Burns. “Who said I didn’t like him? I never did.” “No, you didn’t,” admitted Harvey. “But I know you well enough by this time to tell when you really like a person. Now, if I asked you if you like George Warren, you’d come out plump and flat and swear he is a fine chap, and all that. But you don’t seem quite sure about Mr. Carleton. I think he’s the best man that ever came down here. He likes to have a good time with us boys—which is more than most men do; he enters into things; he buys everything, and he tells good stories. What fault do you find with him?”