er exclusive house next to the work
shop. This without doubt was the old scoundrel's headquarters, but why
did he have two trays? Could by any chance Sylvia be kept beneath the
same roof with him? Had Smilax been mistaken? The weight of my automatic
felt good just then.

When they came out, empty handed, one turned toward the watch tower but
the other went for still a third tray. This, which he carried with an
air of deference, was covered by a white cloth. He came to the boats
across from us and got into a punt, balancing his tray across the bow
while he paddled, standing, toward the little island. Now I became more
than ever tense, and perhaps I moved, for Smilax pressed my arm in
caution.

As the punt touched at the landing platform below Sylvia's house the
fellow did not get out, but gave the call of an ibis--a weird,
beautifully mystic call that is rarely heard and almost impossible to
imitate. Smilax appreciated this, for he grunted: "Good."

The door opened and the Indian woman looked out.

"Hey, there, Echochee," he said. "I got a present from the boss."

She slammed the door, and I do not know when in my life I was ever so
charmed by this simple act.

"Then you go to hell," he drawled. "But I tell yer this: the boss said
if no one come down to git it, for me to leave it in yer parler."

While Echochee had slammed the door she was evidently listening; for now
she came out again, a picture of fury, crying:

"Don't you put foot here!"

"Then come an' git it," he carelessly replied.

She hesitated.

"Lay um down, then go back. Me get um."

"Naw, old hatchet-face. Jest come on down an' git it yer own se'f, or
I'll bring it up."

"My Lady no let any one come here," she warned. "You go back quick!"

"That's all right 'bout yer Lady, but the boss says fer me to hand this
right in myse'f, an' what the boss says--goes! Yer git that, don't yer?
So come on down an' git this, an' that'll make two things yer git," he
laughed boisterously, adding: "It's a weddin' present, an' if yer don't
git a move on maybe the boss'll come his own se'f!"

I could see from the woman's face that she was in a towering rage, but
she went--lithely as a girl, for all her years--to the landing.

"That's what I call sense, old hatchet-face," he sneered, stepping
gingerly over the seat--for a punt is a tippy thing--and holding the
tray out to her.

With a snarl she jerked it from his hands, raised it quickly and brought
it down