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It was Jake for it. I stopped the southbound Cloochman that afternoon and put Jake's letters aboard. Two days later, two clerks from the Commercial Bank and a young lawyer from Dow, Cross & Sneddon's came into Golden Crescent in a launch. I took them over to Jake Meaghan's.
As I ran the boat into his cove, I could hear his dog bark warningly. The door of his barn, for it was nothing else, was closed, and it was some time before I heard Meaghan's deep voice in answer to my knock, inviting me to come in and bidding his dog to lie down. Meaghan was sitting, presumably reading a newspaper, which was the only kind of "literature" I ever saw him read.
It was an evening for kind thoughts. We glided up the Bay, past Jake Meaghan's little home; still further up, then into the lagoon, where not a ripple disturbed that placid sheet of water: where the trees and rocks smiled down upon their own mirrored reflections. We grew silent as the nature around us, awed by the splendours of the hushing universe upon which we had been gazing.
I put on my clothes without haste, picked up a broken axe-handle that lay near the doorway and started noiselessly down the back path in the direction of Meaghan's shack, reaching there about half an hour after I had first detected the boat. When I came to the clearing, I saw a light in the cabin. As I drew closer, I heard the sound of hoarse voices.
It passed between Rita's Isle and the wharf, and held on, turning in to Jake Meaghan's cove. I wondered who the visitor could be, then I went back to my reading. Not long after, a shadow fell across my book and I jumped up. "Pray, don't let me disturb you, my son," said a soft, well-modulated, masculine voice. "Stay where you are. Enjoy your well-earned rest."
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