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As for the degree of peril in a crossing of Scalawag Run, she was not aware of it; she was from St. John’s, not out-port born. The ice in the swell of the sea, with fog creeping around Point-o’-Bay in a rising wind, meant nothing to her experience. At any rate, she would not permit herself to fall into a questionable situation in which she might be called severely to account. She was not of that sort. She had her own interests to serve. They would be best served by an exact execution of her duty.

“This telegram,” said she, “is an office secret, as I have told you already. I have my orders not to betray office secrets.”

Tommy Lark was abashed.

“Look you,” he argued. “If the message is of no consequence an’ could be delayed—-“

“I haven’t said that it is of no consequence.”

“Then ’tis of consequence!”

“I don’t say that it is of consequence. I don’t say anything either way. I don’t say anything at all.”

“Well, now,” Tommy complained, “t’ carry that message across Scalawag Run would be a wonderful dangerous—-“

“You don’t have to carry it across.”

“True. Yet ’tis a man’s part t’ serve—-“

“My instructions,” the young woman interrupted, “are to deliver messages as promptly as possible. If you are crossing to Scalawag Harbor to-night, I should be glad if you would take this telegram with you. If you are not–well, that’s not my affair. I am not instructed to urge anybody to deliver my messages.”

“Is the message from the maid?”

“What a question!” the young woman exclaimed indignantly. “I’ll not tell you!”

“Is there anything about sickness in it?”

“I’ll not tell you.”

“If ’tis a case o’ sickness,” Tommy declared, “we’ll take it across, an’ glad t’ be o’ service. If ’tis the other matter—-“

“What other matter?” the young woman flashed.

“Well,” Tommy replied, flushed and awkward, “there was another little matter between Elizabeth Luke an’—-“

The young woman started.

“Elizabeth Luke!” she cried. “Did you say Elizabeth Luke?”

“I did, ma’am.”

“I said nothing about Elizabeth Luke.”

“We knows ’tis from she.”

“Ah-ha!” the young woman exclaimed. “You know far too much. I think you have more interest in this telegram than you ought to have.”

“I confess it.”

The young woman surveyed Tommy Lark with sparkling curiosity. Her eyes twinkled. She pursed her lips.

“What’s your name?” she inquired.

“Thomas Lark.”

The young woman turned to Sandy Rowl.

“What’s your name?” she demanded.

“Alexander Rowl. Is there–is there anything in the telegram about me? Aw, come now!”

The young woman laughed pleasantly. There was a romance in the wind. Her interest was coy.

“Would you like to know?” she teased, her face dimpling.

Sandy Rowl responded readily to this dimpling, flashing banter. A conclusion suggested itself with thrilling conviction.

“I would!” he declared.

“And to think that I could tell you!”

“I’m sure you could, ma’am!”

The young woman turned to Tommy Lark.

“Your name’s Lark?”

“Yes, ma’am. There’s nothin’–there’s nothin’ in the telegram about a man called Thomas Lark, is there?”

“And yours is Rowl?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m new to these parts,” said the young woman, “and I’m trying to learn all the names I can master. Now, as for this telegram, you may take it or leave it, just as you will. What are you going to do? I want to close the office now and go home to tea.”

“We’ll take it,” said Sandy Rowl. “Eh, Tommy?”

“Ay.”

“An’ we’ll deliver it as soon as we’re able. It may be the night. It may not be. What say t’ that, Tommy?”

“We’ll take it across.”

* * * * *

With that the young woman handed the sealed envelope to Tommy Lark and bade them both goodnight.

Tommy Lark thrust the telegram in his waistcoat pocket and buttoned his jacket. Both men turned to the path to the crest of Black Cliff, whence a lesser foot-path led to the shore of the sea.

“One o’ the two of us,” said Sandy Rowl, “is named in that telegram. I’m sure of it.”