Jim laughed, remembering certain incidents on the _Jeanne D'Arc_. "Do you know," Chamberlain continued, "I'm convinced the bloomin' beggar is hiding about here somewhere. I'm glad Aleck is getting away." "I thought the evidence favored the theory that Chatelard had made straight for New York." "Not a bit of it. Aleck and I let you all believe that, for the sake of the ladies. But the evidence is all the other way. We would surely have caught him if he had been on any of the New York trains. I believe he's about here and means mischief yet." "If he's about here, there's no doubt about the mischief." "I'm going down to-night to bunk on the _Sea Gull_. Aleck let the men off, to go to a sailor's dance over on one of the islands. They'll probably be at it all night, so I'm going back." "Why not let me go? I'm fine as a fiddle. You've had your full share of nasty detective work." "Not at all. I'm booked to see this thing through." "All right!" laughed Jimsy. "But if you change your mind, let me know." Arriving at the house, the men found it deserted. Windows were open and doors unlatched, but no one, not even Danny, responded to Jim's call. Chamberlain started for the Hillside in the car, and Jim wandered about lonesomely, wondering where everybody was. With Jim, as in most cases, everybody meant one person; and presently Sallie, appearing slowly from the upper regions, gave him his clue. He started nimbly for the pine wood. The wagon road stretched alluringly into the sunflecked shade of the grove. A hush like that of primeval day threw its uncanny influence over the world. Jim felt something tugging at his spirit that was unfamiliar, disquieting. He began to whistle just for company, and in a moment, as if at a signal call, Danny came along the path, sedately trotting to meet him. "Hullo, old pardner! So this is where you are." Danny said yes, and led Jim into the clearing and up to a pine stump, where everybody sat, quite alone, chin propped on hand. No singing, no book, and--or did Jimmy imagine it?--a spirit decidedly quenched. Her eyelids were red and her face was pale. "So, dear lady, I have found you. But I was listening for the song." "There is no song to-day." Agatha's manner resembled an Arctic breeze. "May one ask why?" "One can not always be singing." "No? Why not? I could--_if_ I could." Agatha was obliged to relax a trifle at Jimmy's foolishness, but only to reveal, more and more distinctly, a wretchedness of spirit that was quite baffling. It was not feminine wretchedness waiting for a masculine comforter, either, as James observed with regret; it was a stoical spirit, braced to meet a blow--or to deal one. Jimmy was not used to being snubbed, and instinctively prepared for vigorous protest. He began with a little preliminary diplomacy. "You haven't inquired what I'm going to do with the remainder of my holiday," he remarked.