"And what does she do then?" said I, with something of that ponderous
playfulness with which I make scientific jokes at a meeting of the Bronx
Anthropological Association, when I preside.
"She kisses me and turns out the light," said Evelyn Grey, innocently.
I don't know how much Kemper could distinguish. He kept dodging about and
twisting his head until I really thought it would come off, unless it had
been screwed on like the top of a piano stool.
A few minutes later he fired his pistol twice; and Evelyn sat up. I never
knew why he fired; he never offered any explanation.
Toward midnight I could hear the roar of breakers on our starboard bow.
Evelyn heard them, too, and sat up inquiringly.
"Grue has found the inlet to Black Bayou, I suppose," said I.
And it proved to be the case, for, with the surf thundering on either
hand, we sailed into a smoothly flowing inlet through which the flood
tide was running between high dunes all sparkling in the moonlight and
crowned with shadowy palms.
Occasionally I heard noises ahead of us from the other boat, as though
Kemper was trying to converse with us, but as his apropos was as
unintelligible as it was inopportune, I pretended not to hear him.
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