question. Someway, now that it was all
over and the prize was his, he was ashamed that he had not won it
more fairly and humiliated that he was not what she believed him, a
pillar of the _Evening Sentinel_. But Amory had miraculously heard
and turned himself about.

"It's his," he said briefly, "I may as well confess to you, Miss
Holland," he enlarged somewhat, "he's a great cheat. _The Aloha_ is
his, and so am I, busy body and idle soul, for using up his yacht
and his time on a newspaper story. You were the 'story,' you know."

"But," said Olivia in bewilderment, "I don't understand. Surely--"

"Nothing whatever is sure, Miss Holland," Amory sadly assured her,
but his eyes were smiling behind his pince-nez. "You would think one
might be sure of him. But it isn't so. Me, you may depend upon me,"
he impressed it lightly. "I'm what I say I am--a poor beggar of a
newspaper man, about to be held to account by one Chillingworth for
this whole millenial occurrence, and sent off to a political
convention to steady me, unless I'm fired. But St. George, he's a
gay dilettante."

Then Amory resumed a better topic of his own; and Olivia, when she
understood, looked down at her lover as miserably as one is able
when one is perfectly happy.

"Oh," she said, "and up there--in the palace to-day--I did think for
a minute that perhaps you wanted me to marry the prince so
that--they could--."

One could smile now at the enormity of that.

"So that I could put it in the paper?" he said. "But, you see, I
never could put it in any paper, even if I didn't love you. Who
would believe me? A thousand years from now--maybe less--the
_Evening Sentinel_, if it is still in existence, can publish the
story, perhaps. Until then I'm afraid they'll have to confine
themselves to the doings of the precincts."

Olivia waived the whole matter for one of vaster importance.

"Then why did you come to Yaque?" she demanded.

Mr. Frothingham had left his place by the wheel-house and wandered
forward. The steamer chair had a back that was both broad and high,
and one sitting in its shadow was hermetically veiled from the rest
of the deck. So St. George bent forward, and told her.

After that they sat in silence, and together they looked back
toward the island with its black rocks smitten to momentary gold by
a last javelin of light. There it lay--the land locking away as
realities all the fairy-land of speculation, the land of the
miracles of natu