the bushes." Mr. Stepney volunteered the information. "I
suppose he's looking for the Paul Pry."

Mr. Stepney had been unusually glum and silent, for he was piqued by the
tactless appearance of the Briggerlands.

"Come into the water, Marcus," said Jean peremptorily, as she put her
foot against the edge of the raft, and pushed herself backward, "I want
to see Mrs. Meredith dive."

"Me?" said Lydia in surprise. "Good heavens, no! After watching you I
don't intend making an exhibition of myself."

"I want to show you the proper way to dive," said Jean. "Stand up on the
edge of the raft."

Lydia obeyed.

"Straight up," said Jean. "Now put both your arms out wide. Now----"

There was a sharp crack from the shore; something whistled past Lydia's
head, struck an upright post, splintering the edge, and with a whine
went ricochetting into the sea.

Lydia's face went white.

"What--what was that?" she gasped. She had hardly spoken before there
was another shot. This time the bullet must have gone very high, and
immediately afterwards came a yell of pain from the shore.

Jean did not wait. She struck out for the beach, swimming furiously. It
was not the shot, but the cry which had alarmed her, and without waiting
to put on coat or sandals, she ran up the little road where her father
had gone, following the path through the undergrowth. Presently she came
to a grassy plot, in the centre of which two tall pines grew side by
side, and lying against one of the trees was the huddled figure of
Briggerland. She turned him over. He was breathing heavily and was
unconscious. An ugly wound gaped at the back of his head, and his
mackintosh and bathing dress were smothered with blood.

She looked round quickly for his assailant, but there was nobody in
sight, and nothing to indicate the presence of a third person but two
shining brass cartridges which lay on the grass.

Chapter XXII

Lydia Meredith only remembered swooning twice in her life, and both
these occasions had happened within a few weeks.

She never felt quite so unprepared to carry on as she did when, with an
effort she threw herself into the water at Marcus Stepney's side and
swam slowly toward the shore.

She dare not let her mind dwell upon the narrowness of her escape.
Whoever had fired that shot had done so deliberately, and with the
intention of killing her. She had felt the wind of the bullet in her
face.

"What do you suppose it was?" asked Ma