They talked about something else and next evening Marston took the schooner's dinghy and rowed down the lagoon. He had heard curlew whistle in the dark and wondered whether the birds were as wild as they are in England. For a time he followed the edge of the mangroves, where water dripped from the arched roots, and amphibious things splashed in the muddy caves; and then skirted a sloppy bank the tide flowed across. Now and then he saw a curlew but did not get a shot, and by and by he put down the oars. The damp heat was enervating and he rested and looked about. It would soon be dark and the mangroves cut in a straight black line against a fading orange glow. The land-breeze began to shake the leaves and now and then a pale branch moved. All was very quiet but for the dull rumble of the surf outside. Marston felt languid and vaguely disturbed. There was something about Wyndham that puzzled him. When they were at sea he did not want a better friend, but it was different when they went ashore to trade. Well, he had come to look after Harry and now understood better why Mabel had let him go. Perhaps Harry really needed to be looked after. Marston was staunch, but he knew Mabel had not altogether trusted his comrade. There was another thing; he must soon sail the schooner to the next port and he wanted to go, but Harry meant to stay. Marston did not like this, although he could think of no logical objection. The mulatto's visits bothered him. The fellow had asked for Wyndham and somehow Marston would sooner they did not meet. Perhaps the thing was ridiculous, but he felt like that. It got dark and although there was no obvious reason for his return he felt he ought to get back to the yacht. Recently he had felt highly strung. This was, no doubt, the consequence of pottering about the unhealthy swamps, but he must control his illogical impulses and he lighted his pipe while he let the dinghy drift with the tide. She floated quietly up the lagoon and presently he saw _Columbine_'s lights in the mist. Pulling a few languid strokes, he let the boat drift again until the vessel's dark side was close ahead. Then he put out his hand and seized a rope. He wore rubber boots, because he had thought he might wade across the mud, and made no noise when he stepped down from the rail. There was nobody on deck, but a light shone in the cabin and when he went aft he heard voices. The skylight was open and one of the voices was the old mulatto's. Marston stopped abruptly. He wanted to go down and turn out the fellow, but doubted if he would be justified, although he was Wyndham's partner. Somehow it was unthinkable the brute and his comrade should engage in quiet talk. For all that, he did not go, and turning back a few yards stopped again. He must not be a fool, and no doubt the fellow had come to talk about some goods his friends in the bush could supply. Marston did not want the goods, but forced himself to wait.