n I started to walk up here and consult you."

"Well, and what is the matter?"

"Oh, a trifle.... Do you happen to know Tregarthen, the fellow that
farms Saaron Island?"

The Commandant started.

"Eli Tregarthen? Yes, certainly ... that is to say, as I know pretty
well everybody in the Islands."

"What sort of a fellow?"

"Quiet; steady; works on his farm like a horse, week in and week out;
never speaks out of his turn, and says little enough when his turn
comes."

"That sort is often the deepest," observed Mr. Rogers sententiously,
and puffed. "And Saaron Island there, close by the Roads, lies very
handy for a little illicit work."

"You are right, so far," the Commandant admitted; "and history bears
you out. In the old kelp-making days, when half-a-dozen families lived
on it, Saaron gave more trouble than any two islands of its size."

"It's none the less handy for being deserted." Mr. Rogers drew out a
penknife and meditatively loosened the tobacco in his pipe.

"Handier. But you are wrong in suspecting Tregarthen; that is, unless
you have good tangible evidence."

"I don't say that it amounts to much, but it's tangible. In fact, his
boat is lying here, just now, close under the Keg of Butter."

The Commandant turned on his heel and took a pace or two towards the
window, to hide his perturbation and give himself time to consider....
Vashti's boat! And Vashti on the premises at this moment! What was to
be done? How on earth could he get her away?

"You discovered this yourself?" he found himself asking.

"No; I happened to be in the Watch House with the chief boatman
checking the store-sheets, when Beesley, whose watch it is, came in and
reported. I see what you're driving at. Your own boat is lying under
the Keg of Butter, as everybody knows, and you suggest that I am duffer
enough to mistake her in the darkness for a boat at least two-foot
longer."

Mr. Rogers laughed good-naturedly.

"But the answer is," he went on, "that Beesley found two boats lying
there; and Beesley, who knows every craft in the Islands, swears that
the one belongs to you no more certainly than the other to Farmer
Tregarthen. Moreover, she was moored on a shore line, and we pulled her
in and examined her. Sure enough we found name and owner's name cut on
her transom--'Two Sisters: E. Tregarthen.' Now, what d'you make of it?"

"Very little," answered the Commandant, recovering himself; "and that
little in all likelihood qui