“It isn’t by request,” she protested. “I don’t want your life history. I won’t have it! You shan’t treat an unprotected and helpless stranger so. Besides, I’m much more interested to know how you came to be familiar with Lewis Carroll.” “Just because I’ve wasted my career on frivolous trifles like science, you needn’t think I’ve wholly neglected the true inwardness of life, as exemplified in ‘The Hunting of the Snark,’” he said gravely. “Do you know”—she leaned forward, searching his face—“I believe you came out of that book yourself. _Are_ you a Boojum? Will you, unless I ‘charm you with smiles and soap,’ “‘Softly and silently vanish away, And never be heard of again’?” “You’re mixed. _You’d_ be the one to do that if I were a real Boojum. And you’ll be doing it soon enough, anyway,” he concluded ruefully. “So I shall, but don’t be too sure that I’ll ‘never be heard of again.’” He glanced up at the sun, which was edging behind a dark cloud, over the gap. “Is your raging thirst for personal information sufficiently slaked?” he asked. “We’ve still fifteen or twenty minutes left.” “Is that all? And I haven’t yet given you the message!” She drew it from the bag and handed it to him. “Sealed,” he observed. The girl colored painfully. “Dad didn’t intend—You mustn’t think—” With a flash of generous wrath she tore the envelope open and held out the inclosure. “But I shouldn’t have thought you so concerned with formalities,” she commented curiously. “It isn’t that. But in some respects, possibly important, it would be better if—” He stopped, looking at her doubtfully. “Read it,” she nodded. He ran through the brief document. “Yes; it’s just as well that I should know. I’ll leave a copy.” Something in his accent made her scrutinize him. “You’re going into danger!” she cried. “Danger? No; I think not. Difficulty, perhaps. But I think it can be put through.” “If it were dangerous, you’d do it just the same,” she said, almost accusingly. “It would be worth some danger now to get you away from greater danger later. See here, Miss Brewster”—he rose and stood over her—“there must be no mistake or misunderstanding about this.” “Don’t gloom at me with those awful glasses,” she said fretfully. “I feel as if I were being stared at by a hidden person.” He disregarded the protest. “If I get this message through, can you guarantee that your father will take out the yacht as soon as the Dutch send word to him?” “Oh, yes. He will do that. How are you going to deliver the message?” Again her words might as well not have been spoken. “You’d better have your luggage ready for a quick start.” “Will it be soon?” “It may be.” “How shall we know?” “I will get word to you.” “Bring it?” He shook his head. “No; I fear not. This is good-bye.” “You’re very casual about it,” she said, aggrieved. “At least, it would be polite to pretend.” “What am I to pretend?” “To be sorry. Aren’t you sorry? Just a little bit?”