"What can it be?" Rose whispered, aghast, shrinking into Alan's ready arm.
"Some other unfortunate," Alan replied, obviously with an effort. For his flesh crawled with superstitious dread. He knew that voice; it was the voice of one whom he had believed dead, drowned fathoms deep, miles from that spot.
"Judith!" the girl moaned.
"Impossible!" Alan contended. "I saw her go down. …
"That doesn't prove she didn't come up," Barcus broke in acidly.
"Ahoy! Motorboat aho-o-oy! Help!"
Alan cupped hands to mouth and sent an answer ringing through the murk.
"Ahoy! Where are you? Where away?"
"Here—on the reef—half drowned—perishing with cold"
"How does my voice bear?" Alan called back.
"What the dickens do you care?" Barcus interpolated suspiciously.
"To port," came the response. "Starboard your helm and come in slowly!"
"Right O! Half a minute!" Alan replied assuringly.
"Like hell!" Barcus muttered in his throat as he bent over the flywheel.
Jumping on the forward thwart and balancing
