“I believe we’ve got time,” he added, as he rummaged into the interior of a small cabinet, “and, strange as it may seem, it’s the first time I ever tried the thing. It’ll certainly interest you.” I said nothing in reply, but watched him closely as his nimble fingers, with the facility of long practice, flew from plate holder to tray, from bottle to graduate. And next moment we were standing side by side, craning over a negative coming to life. “To my way of thinking,” said he, as he gently rocked the fluid across the dull face of the plate, “you can’t beat the old tray development; I’ll have none of that tank stuff in mine.” “I agree with you heartily there,” I replied. “But what is this, anyway?” The lines on the negative were beginning to take a significance distinctly reminiscent. Stroth chuckled. “My first snapshot by searchlight looks as if it were going to be a success.” “And do you mean to say,” I cried, “that last night----” “Too good a chance to lose,” said he, with continued mirth. “And I got on deck just about the right minute, didn’t I?” Whereupon he withdrew the plate from its bath, and held it up between me and the red glow of the developing lamp. And there, unmistakable, I saw depicted the punt, the hydroplane shunting from its course, Pawlinson’s arms not yet lowered from the hurl he had given me, and I myself just striking the water, a bit of spray fouling a line or two. “Remarkable!” said I, not without a touch of wrath, for the picture brought back the moment. “It’ll be one of my best!” cried Stroth enthusiastically, “and, right this minute, I wouldn’t take fifty dollars for it. It’s great!” He stepped a bit to one side, and bathed the plate, preparatory to the “fixing bath.” But just as he slipped the negative into the “hypo” there came a cheery, but decided, rapping at the dark-room door. “Dad, oh, daddy!” came through the panel, in a voice of bell-like, girlish clearness. With a bound almost feline, Stroth sprang forward, whispering sharply: “I forgot the lock!” But he didn’t reach the door in time, for she had tried the knob, concluded it was right enough to enter. And a hasty reflection assured me that the picture wouldn’t suffer, anyway, now that it had reached the fixing tray. The girl, her eyes getting accustomed to the lesser light, caught sight of me, and started; then whirled suddenly upon her father. “Then we lost, dad?” “Well, scarcely, Stella!” Stroth put a lightness to his answer, which thinly veiled decided uneasiness. “We won, and won well. So much so, in fact, that Mr. Grey here is to be our guest for the trip. You see, I just thought it would be a nice thing to kidnap him for company.” Even in the darkness surrounding us, I could feel his eyes drilling at me, as if defying me to contradict by word or manner. Silence was my only course, and the girl quickly lifted the suspense by recognizing the introduction. She even stepped forward, and shook my hand, as she said: