The moon cleared the trees, and another too-sweet tract of the night-flowering tobacco enveloped her. A bird or two stirred. Some time before she had thought she had heard the sound of a curlew's whistle, low and not very near, but she had disregarded it. Now it came again. All the effect it had was to turn her thoughts, tardily and almost unnoticed by herself, to Roy. She knew little about yachts; yachting was no pastime of Lord Moone's; but even her vaunting mood relaxed to a momentary smile as she remembered the yacht down under the hill there. Those two boys must be crazy to risk their lives like that. They had rounded Land's End in her, and in quite good faith evidently expected the miracle to be repeated. The only wonder was that the centre-board had gone before the rest of the crazy fabric. "I told you to put some old clothes on," Roy had apologised for his vessel, "--and I say--I don't think I'd sit on the table if I were you--I'm not _quite_ sure about it, you see--may have to send it to Mazzicombe after all--come on the locker." So they had sat on the locker---- She had felt safer when, half-an-hour later, she had clambered down into the little dinghy again. It would be Davy Jones's locker for Master Roy and his friend Mr. Izzard unless some fatherly fisherman took them and their boat in hand. Then came the thoughts of her unknown father again. * * * * * "_Ee-oooo-eee!_" She sat up. The whistle came from the stile up the hill. And suddenly she knew it was no curlew. It was Roy. She listened. "_Ee-oooo-eee!_" It was Roy. She knew he would not seek her farther than the stile. Had there not been other sleepers just below the orchard, it would still have been the extreme of his boldness that he had got so far. But--she remembered how from the first she had been the prime mover in their entirely wanton flirtation--was it necessarily the extreme of hers? Then, as the devil would have it, something brought Mrs. Lovenant-Smith into her head again. That woman! All the blood left her cheeks and thronged to her heart again. Roy would certainly not pass the stile---- She hesitated for a moment longer, and then suddenly got up from her bed. Her clothes were wrapped in her waterproof; she took the waterproof and put it on. She thrust her feet into a pair of slippers. The waterproof was not so long as the garment beneath it; the moon was now well above the trees; it showed the hurrying white about her heels as she walked quickly up the hill. She drew the under-garment up a little. The waterproof was almost the colour of the scorched grass. The small shadow that preceded her was now the thing most plainly to be seen. Over the stile she saw the shoulder of his white sweater. Again her caution awoke. "You might have put a coat on," she said, a little out of breath. "You can be seen half-a-mile away on a night like this." "I thought you were never going to hear me!" he said.