Bill Marshall, leaning on the after rail of his yacht and watching the churning, white wake of her twin screws, was not sure but the best way to mend things was to jump overboard and forget how to swim. Jealousy and rage were no longer his chief troubles. Remorse had perched itself on his already burdened shoulders. And then came shame, piling itself on top of remorse. And soon afterward fear, to sit on the shoulders of shame. Truly, his load was great.

To steam his way out of Larchmont Harbor had been a magnificent revenge. But with Bill, vengeance was never a protracted emotion; when its thrill began to fade it left him chilled. Even jealousy did not suffice to warm him. And then came crowding all the other emotions, to thrust him down into a bottomless mire of despondency and irresolution.

The sailing master of the Sunshine had reached the opinion that his owner, in which relation, as charterer, Bill stood for the time being, was either extremely absent-minded or slightly mad. When the yacht cleared the harbor he asked for further orders. Bill told him to stand across the Sound for awhile. When it was no longer possible to hold that course, because of the presence of Long Island, he again asked for a course. Bill advised him to sail east awhile, then west awhile, but on no account to bother him about the matter any further. So this was done, while the sailing master and his two officers held whispered consultations on the subject of their owner.

While these somewhat peculiar maneuvers were being carried into execution, Bill endeavored to reach a decision. Should he go back to Larchmont and hunt for the missing ones? No; their punishment was not yet great enough. Even if he went back, was there any chance of finding them? Had they gone ashore? Had they been picked up by a craft? Had—he shivered—anything worse happened to them? Of course nothing had happened to them; of course. He assured himself of that over and over again. And yet—well, things did happen, even to the best of swimmers. And if anything had happened, what could he do now? Would he be responsible? Would he be a murderer? Nonsense; certainly not. Yet he would feel himself a murderer, even if the law demanded nothing of him. Why, if anything happened to that little girl—— He gripped the rail and tried to pull himself together.

Well, even if the worst happened, it would put an end to his society career. There might be consolation in that, he thought; but much as he sought to draw upon this source of comfort, it yielded little.

"Any further orders, sir?" asked the sailing master.

"Not yet; keep on sailing."

"But which way, sir?"

Bill glared.

"Forward, backward, sidewise—suit yourself."

The sailing master went away with deep wrinkles in his forehead and, for a change, the Sunshine began to describe wide circles. She was still circling, like a destroyer waiting to pounce upon a submarine, when Aunt Caroline, fresh from her nap, came on deck. She found Bill still standing at the stern.

"Have you seen Miss Norcross, William?"

"Not for some time."

"I've been looking for her. I can't imagine where she is."

"Neither can I."

Aunt Caroline looked at him inquiringly.

"You haven't quarreled with her about anything, have you, William?"

"Quarreled? No, indeed; there's been no quarrel."

"I'm glad of that," said Aunt Caroline. "She's too nice a girl to quarrel with."

Now, for the first time since her arrival on deck, she took note of the fact that the Sunshine was moving; also, that their environment had completely changed.

"Why, we're sailing again, William!"

"We're just out in the Sound a ways; I got tired of staying in one place."

The answer seemed to satisfy her immediate curiosity. Bill wished that she would go away, so that he might drown himself in peace, but Aunt Caroline appeared to be taking an interest in things.

"I don't think they keep the yacht quite as tidy as they might," she remarked. "There's a chair lying on its back. The magazines are blowing all over the deck, too. There ought to be paper-weights. Dear me, William; they need a housekeeper."

Suddenly she walked across the deck and bent over to study a dark object that lay near the opposite rail.

"More untidiness," said Aunt Caroline resentfully. "One of the sailors has left a wash-rag here."

She stooped and picked the thing up between thumb and forefinger. As she shook it out drops of water flew from it. Aunt Caroline's eyes became round with amazement.

"Why, William! It's the skirt of her bathing-suit!"

Bill stared at the thing, fascinated.

"How on earth did it ever come to be lying here on the deck?" exclaimed Aunt Caroline.

"She must have taken it off," he mumbled.

"And came on board without it? William, she is not that kind of a girl."

What was the use of hiding things any longer? Bill looked Aunt Caroline in the eye.

"She didn't come on board," he said.

It required several seconds for that to sink in.

"Not on board?" she repeated. "Why, what do you mean? Where is she?"

He waved his hand in the direction of Larchmont Harbor.

"Having a swim, I guess," he said, with an effort at nonchalance.

"William Marshall! You mean to say she didn't come back to the yacht?"

"She hadn't at the time we left."

"Or Peter?"

"Nope. Peter didn't come back, either."

"Then what in the world is this boat doing out here?" demanded Aunt Caroline.

"It got tired of waiting."

"You don't mean to tell me that you left them back there in the water?"

"That's about it."

Aunt Caroline was puffing out.

"Why, William! Are you insane? To leave that girl back there with nothing——" She looked down at the little wet skirt and shuddered. "Oh, I can't believe it!"

"Well, it's true, all right," said Bill sullenly. "They didn't seem in any hurry to come back, and I didn't think it was up to me to wait all day."

"It's unheard of. It's shocking! Why, she isn't dressed to go anywhere. She isn't even properly dressed for—for bathing." Aunt Caroline for an instant was trying to put herself in the place of any fish who might chance to swim in the vicinity of Mary Wayne. "William Marshall, there ought to be some terrible way to punish you!"

Bill thought a way had been discovered; he had been punishing himself for the last two hours.

"You turn this yacht right around and go back to Larchmont and find them," she commanded.

In one respect, Bill found a slight measure of relief in his aunt's view of the situation. Evidently it did not occur to her that Mary and Pete might be drowned, and if such a possibility had not occurred to her very likely it was extremely remote.

"What's the sense of going back now?" he asked. "It'll be dark in half an hour."

"Nevertheless, you turn this boat around."

"Oh, they're all right by this time," he said carelessly.

"Well, if they are, it's not because of anything you've done, William Marshall." Aunt Caroline's eyes were beginning to blaze. "You've done your best to disgrace the girl. Oh, that poor child! I don't approve of her taking off her skirt, understand me; I never could bring myself to that. I never did it myself, when I was a young woman, and I wouldn't do it now. But that doesn't excuse you. It simply makes it worse that you should have gone away and left her. You did quarrel with her, of course; I can understand, now. You let that childish temper of yours govern you. Oh, that I should ever have had such a nephew. I'm ashamed of you!"

Bill felt that he was on the verge of disinheritance, but Aunt Caroline abruptly changed her line of thought.

"Thank goodness she's in charge of a responsible person!" she exclaimed.

"Who? My valet?"

"Certainly. If it were not for that I should be dreadfully frightened. But he'll take care of her, of course. He's just the kind of young man she ought to be with in such an awful predicament. If she were my own daughter I wouldn't ask anything better, under the circumstances."

Bill sneered elaborately.

"He's so absolutely safe," declared Aunt Caroline. "He has such fine, high principles."

"Oh, bunk, Aunt Caroline."

"William, don't you try to disparage that young man. I only wish you had his pure ideals. That's what makes me feel safe about Miss Norcross. He's so sound, and religious, and upright. Why, his very character is sufficient to save the girl's reputation."

Bill was growing restive under the panegyric.

"Her reputation doesn't need any saving," he declared.

"Not with you or me; no. That's perfectly understood. But with the world—that is different. The world will never understand. That is, it would not understand if her companion were anybody but Peter. But when it is known that it was he who guarded her and watched over her——"

"Aunt Caroline, lay off."

She stopped in sheer amazement and stared at her nephew. Bill was in a mood to throw caution to the winds.

"I'll agree with you she's safe enough," he said, "but for the love of Mike cut out that bull about Pete. He hasn't got any more principles than I have. I'm sick and tired of hearing you singing psalms about him."

Aunt Caroline gasped.

"Why, confound him, he hasn't any more religion than a fish. He never studied theology in his life."

"William, I don't believe a word you say."

"You might as well," said Bill scornfully. "Why, Aunt Caroline, he doesn't know any more about theology than you do about dancing the shimmy."

"But he talked to Bishop Wrangell——"

"Oh, he talked, all right. He's a bird at that. But it was just words, I tell you, words. He got it all out of the encyclopedia home. He's been stringing you—you and the bishop. That's just where he lives—stringing people."

"I—don't—believe—it!" But there was a trace of alarm in Aunt Caroline's voice, despite her brave insistence.

"Oh, all right; don't. But if you'd ever known that wild aborigine in college you wouldn't swallow that theology stuff, hook, line and sinker."

"It simply cannot be true, William Marshall."

Bill laughed recklessly.

"Why, if you'd ever seen Pete Stearns——"

"Peter who?"

"Stearns."

Aunt Caroline was sniffing, as though she scented danger.

"What Stearns?" she demanded.

"Oh, you know 'em, all right, Aunt Caroline."

She seized Bill by the arm and backed him against the rail.

"Of the Eliphalet Stearns family?" she demanded.

"That's the bunch," affirmed Bill, wickedly.

She put her hand to her throat and retreated a pace, staring at Bill through horrified eyes.

"You stand there and tell me he is a Stearns?" she whispered. "And you say it without shame, William Marshall? You have brought a Stearns to my house, when you knew—— Oh, William!"

"As a matter of fact," said Bill with sudden generosity, "Pete's all right in his own way, but he's no divinity student. As for his being a Stearns——"

Aunt Caroline stopped him with a gesture.

"Answer my question," she said sharply. "Is he a grandson of Eliphalet Stearns?"

"Uh huh."

"A son of Grosvenor Stearns?"

"That's Pete."

She seemed to grow suddenly in stature.

"Then," she said, "you have disgraced the house of Marshall. You have brought under my roof, in disguise, the son of an enemy. A Stearns! You have done this thing with the deliberate purpose of deceiving me. Had I known, had I even suspected, that you had ever associated with such a person, I should have disowned you, William Marshall."

"But his name is Pete, all right, Aunt Caroline. And you never asked me for his last name."

"You would have lied if I had," she said, in a voice that trembled despite its sternness. "You did all this knowing full well my opinion of the Stearns family. Eliphalet Stearns! He was your grandfather's worst enemy. Grosvenor Stearns! Your father and Grosvenor Stearns never spoke to each other from the days when they were boys. And now—now it remains for you to bring into my house another generation of a people who are beneath the notice or the contempt of a true Marshall. It is unspeakable!"

And yet she found herself able to speak with much freedom on the matter.

"Oh, what's the use of all this medieval history?" demanded Bill. "Just because my grandfather and old man Stearns had a blow-up, I don't see why I've got to go on hating the family for the rest of my days. That old row isn't any of my funeral, Aunt Caroline."

"Have you no regard for your family honor and pride, William Marshall? Have you no loyalty to the memory of your ancestors? Have you no thought of me? Must you insult the living as well as the dead?"

"I should think," grumbled Bill, "that if you believed in theology you'd go in for that business of forgiving your enemies."

"But not a Stearns," she said vehemently. "And as for believing in theology—oh, how can I believe in anything after this?"

"Well, if you hadn't gone so daffy over him I wouldn't have said anything about it."

"Daffy?" echoed Aunt Caroline. "Are you insinuating——"

"You've been throwing him up to me as a model of holy innocence ever since he came into the house," said Bill angrily. "Just now you've been preaching about how safe she was with Pete, and all that sort of poppycock. I tell you, I'm sick of it, Aunt Caroline."

Aunt Caroline suddenly remembered. She groaned.

"Oh, that poor girl! Heaven knows what will become of her now. Out there——" She gestured wildly. "With a Stearns!"

"Oh, he'll do as well by her as any sanctimonious guy."

"The child's reputation is gone! Gone!"

"That's nonsense," said Bill sharply. "If it comes to that, she can take care of herself."

"No girl can take care of herself, William Marshall. No proper girl would think of attempting it." Aunt Caroline bridled afresh at the very suggestion of feminine independence. "This is the end of the poor child. And you are responsible."

"Oh, piffle."

"A Stearns!" murmured Aunt Caroline.

"Bunk!"

"A Stearns!"

"But suppose he was really trying to live down the family name and lead a better life?" suggested Bill.

"Not a Stearns, William Marshall. There are some things in this world that cannot be done. Oh, that unfortunate girl!"

Bill sighed irritably.

"All right; we'll go back and hunt her up," he said. He was, in fact, rather pleased to have an excuse.

"And see to it that she is properly married to him," added Aunt Caroline.

Bill looked like a man about to choke.

"What!" he shouted.

"Certainly," said his aunt. "He's a Stearns, I know; but what else is there to do? Even a bad name is better than none."

"Aunt Caroline, you're crazy!"

"I was never more sane in my life. William. The poor child must marry him. I'm sorry, of course; but it is better than not marrying him at all."

"Marry Pete Stearns?" Bill resembled a large and ferocious animal, perhaps a lion. "Marry him? Not in a million years will she marry him!"

Aunt Caroline studied her nephew in astonishment.

"Would you deny her the poor consolation of a name?" she demanded. "Of course she will marry him. I shall personally attend to it."

"You'll do nothing of the kind," said Bill savagely. "You'll keep out of it."

"Order the boat back to Larchmont at once," was Aunt Caroline's answer.

"Not for that purpose."

"To Larchmont!"

Had she been taller, Aunt Caroline at that moment would have been imperious. She gestured with a sweep of the arm worthy of a queen. The gesture, it happened, was not in the direction of Larchmont at all, but she did not know that.

Bill shook his head grimly.

"William Marshall, I propose to be obeyed."

Ordinarily, when Aunt Caroline reached that point, Bill yielded the field to her. But this was no ordinary occasion. She proposed to marry her social secretary to Pete Stearns—his secretary! Where was ever such an outrageous idea conceived? Again he shook his head. He could find no words to voice his scornful defiance.

Suddenly Aunt Caroline wilted into a deck chair.

"I wish to go to my stateroom," she said, in a weak voice. "I feel faint. Send for my maid."

Bill departed on a run. The maid brought smelling salts, and after a minute of sniffing Aunt Caroline arose and walked slowly toward the saloon entrance, through which she disappeared. She ignored Bill's offer of an arm.

The boss of the yacht Sunshine, having satisfied his lust for defiance, ran forward and mounted the bridge two steps at a time.

"Back to Larchmont!" he commanded.

He was still standing on the bridge as they entered the harbor. By the time they were well inside, darkness had fallen.

"Are we to anchor, sir?" inquired the sailing master.

"I don't know," said Bill shortly. "Take a turn up where we were moored a while ago."

But before they had proceeded very far up the harbor he realized the futility of it. No sane persons would be swimming about after dark looking for a yacht whose return was purely conjectural.

"Head her outside again," ordered Bill.

The sailing master shrugged, gave a command, and the Sunshine began swinging in a circle.

"After we get outside, sir, which way?"

"I don't know. I haven't decided. I'll tell you later. Damn it, don't ask so many questions."