Tom Pembroke was as good as his word. He returned to the little room, in which he had confined the Marquis, within an hour after he had left him. It was then nearly supper-time and dusk was fast settling upon the gloomy countryside. An unwonted calm had fallen upon land and sea after the sharp blow of the previous night, but the sky was still gray and there was promise of more rain, if not of wind.

To Tom's indignation and alarm, though scarcely to his surprise, there had been no sign or word from Dan or Nancy. Shortly after he had left the Marquis, he saw, by aid of the field-glass, Madame de la Fontaine, attended by two seamen, leave the schooner and return to the House on the Dunes. He smiled a little as he thought of the account the lively young maid-servant would give of his recent visit. But withal, he felt very much as if he were playing a game of blind man's buff and that he was "it." He was impatient for his interview with the Marquis, though he was but little hopeful that an hour's confinement would have been sufficient to bring the old gentleman to terms. Nor was he to be surprised.

He found Monsieur de Boisdhyver huddled in a great arm chair near the fire that that been kindled on the hearth of his prison. The Marquis glanced up, as Tom entered, but dropped his eyes at once and offered him no greeting. Tom placed his candle on the table and, drawing up a chair, seated himself between the Marquis and the door.

"Well, sir," he said at last, "as I promised you, I have returned within an hour. Have you anything to say to me?"

"Have I anything to say to you!" exclaimed the Marquis. "For why, monsieur? If I venture to express my astonishment and indignation at the way I am treated, you subject me to a barbarity that could be matched no where else in the civilized world than in this extraordinary country. My life is menaced with firearms. My protests are sneered at. I have left but one inference—you have gone mad."

"No, marquis," said Pembroke, "I am not mad. I am simply determined that the mysteries by which we have been surrounded and of which you are the center, shall cease. You have a free choice: put me in the way of getting my friend and his sister back to the Inn, or resign yourself to a prolonged confinement in this room."

"But monsieur I have nothing to communicate to you concerning the disappearance of your friends."

"Pardon me, marquis," returned Pembroke; "you have much to communicate to me. Perhaps you are not aware that I know the motive of your coming to the Inn at the Red Oak; that I know the reason for your prolonged stay here; that I know of the influence that you have acquired over Nancy Frost; and that I have been a witness of your midnight prowlings about the Inn. Nor am I in ignorance of your connection with the rascally-looking captain of the schooner at anchor in the Cove and with the mysterious woman, who has taken possession of the House on the Dunes. I am convinced that you know what has become of Dan as well as what has happened to Nancy. And, believe me, I am determined to find out."

"Bien!" exclaimed Monsieur de Boisdhyver, "permit me to wish you good luck in your undertaking. I repeat, Monsieur Pembroke, I have no information to give to you. I do not know to what extent I have been watched, but I may say with truth that my actions do not in the least concern you."

"They concern my friends," said Tom. "Dan, as you know, is more to me than a brother; and as for his sister Nancy, I hope and expect to make her my wife."

"In that case," rejoined the Marquis with ill-concealed irony, "I may be permitted to offer to you my congratulations. But even so, monsieur, there is nothing that I can do to facilitate your matrimonial plans."

"You refuse then to come to terms?" asked Pembroke.

The Marquis raised his hands with a gesture of despair. "What shall I say, monsieur? If you insisted upon my flying from here to yonder beach, I might have all the desire in the world to oblige you, but the fact would remain that I was without the means of doing so. Since you are so little disposed to accept my protestations, I will no longer make them, but simply decline your proposal. And, pardon me, but so long as I am submitted to the indignity of this confinement, it would be a courtesy that I should appreciate if you would spare me your company."

"Very good," said Tom. "Your meals will be served regularly; and you may ask the servant for anything necessary. I shall not visit you again until you request me to do so."

"Merci," said the Marquis drily. He rose from his seat as Dan turned toward the door, and bowed ironically.

Pembroke went downstairs to have his supper with Mrs. Frost. He said what he could to pacify her, not altogether with success, for as darkness fell the old lady became increasingly apprehensive.

"I know you are anxious, Mrs. Frost," said Tom, "but you must not worry. Try to believe that all will come out right. I am going out after supper, but I shall leave Jesse and Ezra on guard, and you may be sure everything will be safe."

It was some time before Mrs. Frost would consent to his leaving the Inn. If she had yielded to her inclinations, she would have spent the evening in hysterics with Tom at hand to administer comfort. Pembroke, however, deputed that office to black Deborah, and immediately after supper set about his business.

He gave the necessary instructions to Jesse, Ezra and the maids, saw that everything was closely locked and barred, supplied himself with arms and ammunition, and slipped out into the night. Having saddled Fleetwing, he swung himself on the young hunter's back, and trotted down the avenue to the Port Road. The night was intensely dark and still. The moon had not yet risen, and a thick fog rolled in from the sea, shrouding the countryside with its impenetrable veil.

At the Beach Road Pembroke dismounted, tied his horse to a fence rail, and proceeded thence on foot toward the Cove. Stumbling along through the heavy sand, he made his way to the boathouse at the northern end of the little beach. There he ventured to light his lantern, unlocked the door and stepped within. On either side of the entrance were the two sailboats that he and Dan used in summer and to the rear was the old-fashioned whaleboat with which they did their deep fishing. Over it, in a rudely constructed rack, was the Indian birch-bark canoe which Dan had purchased in the mountains a few years before. As the sea had fallen to a dead calm, he decided to use this canoe, which he could paddle quite noiselessly, and pulling down the little craft from its winter resting-place, he carried it to the water's edge. The sea, so angry the night before, now scarcely murmured; only a low lazy swell, at regularly recurring intervals, slapped the shore and hissed upon the sands. Tom pushed the nose of the canoe into the water, leaped lightly over the rail, and with his paddle thrust it off the beach. He was launched without mishap.

Not the faintest gleam of light showed the position of the Southern Cross, but estimating as well as he could the general direction, he paddled out through the enshrouding fog. For ten minutes or so, he pushed on into the strange, misty night. Then suddenly he found himself alongside an old fisherman's yawl that had been rotting all winter at her moorings, and he knew from her position that he could not be far from the Southern Cross.

A few more strokes to leeward, and a spot of dull light broke through the darkness. He headed directly for it. To his relief it grew brighter; when suddenly, too late to stop the progress of his canoe, he shot under it, and the bow of his craft bumped with a dull thud against the timber side of the schooner. Its dark outlines were just perceptible above him; and at one or two points there gleamed rays of light in the fog, green and red from the night lamps on the masthead, and dull yellow from the port holes in the rear. A second after the contact the canoe receded, then the wash of the sea drew her toward the stern. Another moment and Pembroke felt his prow scrape gently against the rudder, which prevented further drifting. Apparently, since he heard nothing from the deck above, he had reached his goal without attracting attention.

He kept perfectly still, however, for some little time, until satisfied that there was no one at the wheel above, he pushed the canoe softly back to the rope ladder, that a day or so before he had seen hanging over the side. It was the work of a moment to make his little boat fast to the lower rung. Then slipping over the rail, he climbed stealthily up till his head protruded above the gunwhale. The immediate deck seemed deserted; but he was sure that some one was keeping the watch, and probably near the point where he was, that is to say, where access to the deck was easiest. But the fog and the darkness afforded him protection, as he climbed over the gunwhale and, without making a sound, moved toward the stern, crossed the after-deck and found the wheel. As he had surmised, it was deserted. The watch evidently was forward. Beneath him, sending its ineffectual rays obliquely into the fog, shone the light from the little cabin below.

Determined to get a look through the port, he climbed over the gunwhale again, fastened a stern-sheet about his waist and to a staple, and at the risk, if he slipped or if the rope gave way, of plunging head foremost into the icy waters of the Cove, he let himself down until his head was on a level of the port.

Through the blurred glass he peered into a tiny cabin. There with back toward him, just a few feet away stood Nancy Frost. He steadied himself with an effort, and looking again saw that she was alone. A moment's hesitation, and he tapped resolutely on the pane with his finger tips. At first Nancy did not hear, but presently, aroused by the slight tapping, she glanced with a frightened expression toward the door, and stood anxiously listening. Tom continued to knock on the window, not daring to make it louder for fear of being heard above. The alarm deepened on Nancy's face, and in sheer pity Tom was tempted to desist; but at that instant her attention was riveted upon the spot whence the tapping came. At last, still with the expression of alarm on her face, she came slowly toward the port. She hesitated, then pressed her face against the pane over which Tom had spread his fingers. At whatever risk, of frightening her or of danger to himself, as she drew back, he pressed his own face against the outside of the little window glass. She stared at him as if she were looking at a ghost.

He moved his lips to form the word "Open." At length, in obedience to this direction, Nancy cautiously unloosened the window of the port and drew it back.

"Good heavens, Tom!" she whispered. "Is it you?"

"Yes, yes," Pembroke whispered back. "But for God's sake, speak softly. I'm in a devilishly unpleasant position, and can hang here but a minute. Tell me quickly—are you here of your own free will or are you a prisoner?"

"How can you ask?" she exclaimed. "For the love of heaven, help me to escape."

"That's what I'm here for," was Toms reply. "Now, quick; are you only locked in or barred as well? I've brought some keys along."

"Only locked, I think."

"Where does that door lead?"

"Into a little passage off the companion-way. Give me your keys. They have but one man on watch. The captain is on shore to-night, apt to return at any moment. And you?"

"I have a canoe tied to the ladder on the shore side. If the captain returns, I'm caught. Try those keys." He slipped into her the bunch of keys that he had brought along. "I was sure you were here, and against your will."

"Dan, too, is locked up on board."

"I thought as much; but you first. Hurry."

Nancy sprang to the door, trying one key after another in feverish haste. At last, to Tom's infinite relief, he saw the key turn in the lock, and the door open.

"On deck," she whispered; "at the ladder. I'm not likely to be caught." Then she waved her hand and disappeared into the passage.

Tom pulled himself up, unloosed the rope, and stole along the rail toward the ladder. For a few moments, which seemed like a thousand years, he stood in anguished suspense waiting for Nancy. Then suddenly she came out of the mist and was at his side. They stood for a moment like disembodied spirits, creatures of the night and the fog. The next instant a hand shot out and grasped the girl's shoulder.

"Peste! mam'zelle," a rough voice hissed, "ou allez-vous?"

As the man spoke Tom swung at him with the butt of his revolver, and without a murmur the figure fell to the deck.

"Quick now," Pembroke whispered, "down the ladder."

Instantly Nancy was over the rail and Tom was climbing down after her. As he knelt in the bow and fumbled with the painter, the plash of oars sounded a dozen yards away.

"Ho! Croix du Midi!" came a hail through the fog.

"Curse it!" muttered Tom; "the painter's caught." He drew out his knife, slashed the rope that bound them to the schooner, got to his place amidships, and pushed the canoe free. The lights of a small boat were just emerging from the dark a dozen feet away. But the canoe slid by unobserved, in the fog. They heard the nose of the small boat bump against the schooner; then an oath, and a man's voice calling the watch.

"They've found my painter," whispered Tom, "and in a second they'll find the sailor on their deck."

The lights of the Southern Cross grew dim; vanished; the sound of angry voices became muffled. They were half-way to shore when they heard the noise of oars again. Evidently some one had started in pursuit. For a moment Tom rested, listening intently; but the sound was still some distance away. Probably, he thought, they were heading directly for the shore, whereas he, at a considerable angle, was making for the boathouse at the north end of the beach. In ten minutes he had beached the canoe within a rod of the point from where he embarked.

"I can't hear them," whispered Tom, after a moment's listening. "They've made for shore down the beach. They can't find us in the dark. I've got Fleetwing tied to a fence in the meadow yonder. Come."

It was the work of a moment to stow the canoe, lock the boathouse, run across the sands, and mount Nancy in front of him on the back of his trusty hunter. A second later Fleetwing's hoofs were striking fire on the stones that the high tides had washed into the beach road. In the distance there was a cry, the sharp ring of a pistol shot; but they were safe on their way, racing wildly for the Inn. The escape, the adventure had thrilled Nancy. Tom's arms were around her, and her hands on his that grasped the bridle. At last they were in the avenue, and Tom pulled in under the great branches of the Red Oak. He slipped from the back of the horse and held out his arms to Nance.

"We are safe, girl," he whispered.

"You are sure? Oh, thank God, thank God! Quick, let us in! Can they be following?"

"No, no. They won't follow. It's all right. Easy,—before we go in—please, dear—once—kiss me."

"Oh, Tom, Tom," she whispered, as she lifted her face to his.

"I have you at last, sweetheart," he murmured. "You love me?"

"Ah!" she cried, "with my whole heart and soul."