"Why yes," I answered, "in the season. Plenty of coots, some black duck,
and quail and partridge in the woods."

"That so! Peters, that carpenter of mine, said something of the sort, I
remember, but I wouldn't believe him under oath. I could shoot HIM with
more or less pleasure, but there seems to be no open session for his
species. Where's your launch?"

"Out yonder." I pointed to the Comfort at her moorings. He looked, but
made no comment. I rose and put the gun in the rack. Then I returned to
my chair. He swung around in his seat and looked at me.

"Well," he said, grimly, but with a twinkle in his eye, "the last time
you and I chatted together you told me to go to the devil."

This was quite true and I might have added that I was glad of it. But
what would be the use? I did not answer at all.

"I haven't gone there yet," he continued. "Came over here instead. Got
dry yet?"

"Dry?"

"Yes. You were anything but dry when I saw you last night. Have many
such cloudbursts as that in these parts?"

"Not many. No."

"I hope not. I don't want another until I sell that horse of mine. The
chap who stuck me with him is a friend of mine. He warranted the beast
perfectly safe for an infant in arms to drive and not afraid of anything
short of an earthquake. He is a lovely liar. I admire his qualifications
in that respect, and hope to trade with him again. He bucks the stock
market occasionally."

He smiled as he said it. There was not the slightest malice in his tone,
but, if I had been the "friend," I should have kept clear of stocks for
awhile.

"What became of the horse?" I asked.

"Ran away again. Jenkins had just got back into the carriage when
another one of those thunder claps started more trouble. The horse ran
four miles, more or less, and stopped only when the wheels got jammed
between two trees. I paid nine hundred dollars for that carriage."

"And the coachman?"

"Oh, he lit on his head, fortunately, and wasn't hurt. Spent half the
night trying to find a phone not out of commission but failed. Got home
about four o'clock, leading the horse. Paine--"

"Yes?"

"Of course you know what I've come here for. I'm much obliged to you."

"That's all right. You're welcome."

"Maybe I am, but I am obliged, just the same. Not only for the help you
gave Mabel--my daughter--last night, but for that business in the bay
the other afternoon."

So she had told him the whole story. Remembering her last words,