The sea was bright, the brisk wind just right for the _Annie O._ There was eagerness in the way it smacked the sail and in the creak of the mast. And when he reached the cove, it was no longer still, but nervous with faint ripples, as if time had finally begun to stir. After the same struggle with the underbrush, he came out on the rocky spine and passed the cove of the sea urchins. The spiny creatures struck an uncomfortable chord in his memory. This time he climbed the second island cautiously, scraping the innocent-seeming ground ahead of him intently with a boathook he'd brought along for the purpose. He was only a few yards from the fence when he saw Mary Alice Pope standing behind it. He hadn't realized that his heart would begin to pound or that, at the same time, a shiver of almost supernatural dread would go through him. The girl eyed him with an uneasy hostility and immediately began to speak in a hushed, hurried voice. "You must go away at once and never come back. You're a wicked man, but I don't want you to be hurt. I've been watching for you all morning." He tossed the newspapers over the fence. "You don't have to read them now," he told her. "Just look at the datelines and a few of the headlines." When she finally lifted her eyes to his again, she was trembling. She tried unsuccessfully to speak. "Listen to me," he said. "You've been the victim of a scheme to make you believe you were born around 1916 instead of 1933, and that it's 1933 now instead of 1951. I'm not sure why it's been done, though I think I know who you really are." "But," the girl faltered, "my aunts tell me it's 1933." "They would." "And there are the papers ... the magazines ... the radio." "The papers are old ones. The radio's faked--some sort of recording. I could show you if I could get at it." "_These_ papers might be faked," she said, pointing to where she'd let them drop on the ground. "They're new," he said. "Only old papers get yellow." "But why would they do it to me? _Why?_" "Come with me to the mainland, Mary. That'll set you straight quicker than anything." "I couldn't," she said, drawing back. "He's coming tonight." "He?" "The man who sends me the boxes ... and my life." Jack shivered. When he spoke, his voice was rough and quick. "A life that's completely a lie, that's cut you off from the world. Come with me, Mary." * * * * * She looked up at him wonderingly. For perhaps ten seconds the silence held and the spell of her eerie sweetness deepened. "I love you, Mary," Jack said softly. She took a step back. "Really, Mary, I do." She shook her head. "I don't know what's true. Go away." "Mary," he pleaded, "read the papers I've given you. Think things through. I'll wait for you here." "You can't. My aunts would find you." "Then I'll go away and come back. About sunset. Will you give me an answer?"