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expense, just to see if she’s out there? She’s insured, isn’t she?”
    She nodded. “Against marine risk, as I get the picture. But I don’t think the policy covers theft, and if something happens to her out there and I’ve got no witnesses or actual proof of loss, it might be years before I could collect.”
    That was possible, he thought. But the feeling persisted that she wasn’t telling the truth—or at least not all of it. Well, it was none of his business. He bent over the chart, studying the position she had marked and estimating the distances. “I think Nassau would be the best bet. It’s a little nearer, and McAllister Air Service used to have some big twin-engine amphibians that should be able to do it. Want me to call them now?”
    “Sure.”
    He reached for the telephone on one of the small end-tables. While the operator put through the call he sat frowning thoughtfully at the chart. What could they have been doing out there? He was connected then with the office at Windsor Field in Nassau. McAllister had left for the night, but one of the pilots was still around, a man named Avery. He said they were still flying the amphibians.
    “What’s their range?” he asked.
    “It depends on the load. What do you want to carry?”
    “Just a couple of passengers. Here’s the deal. . . .” He explained briefly, and asked, “Do you have a chart handy, any general chart that takes in the area west of Andros?”
    “Yes, sir. There’s one right in front of me.”
    “Good. Take a look at the outer edge of the Bank, opposite Cay Sal. Got it? They picked up the dinghy at about 23.30 north, just off the hundred-fathom curve in the Santaren Channel. If we wanted to fly a search pattern around that point, how much of the area could we cover and still not have to walk home?”
    “Hmmm . . . Just a minute . . . We could stay down there close to two hours and still get back all right.”
    “What’s the rate?”
    “A hundred and twenty-five dollars an hour.”
    “Just a minute.” He placed a hand over the transmitter and relayed the figure to Mrs. Osborne.
    She nodded. “Tell him we’ll be there as soon as we can.”
    He spoke into the instrument. “Okay. I think there’s a Pan American flight out of here early in the morning—”
    “Yes. Flight 401. Arrives Nassau at nine a.m.”
    “Check. And if we can’t get space on it, I’ll cable you what flight we will be on. That okay?”
    “Yes, sir. So unless we hear from you, we’ll have her fueled and ready for nine a.m.”
    He broke the connection, got the hotel operator again, and asked for Pan American Airways. They were in luck; space was available on flight 401. He made the reservations and hung up.
    “It’s all set,” he said. “Ill meet you at the Pan Am counter at the airport about three-quarters of an hour before flight time.”
    “Good. Now about your pay—”
    “There’s no charge,” he said.
    She frowned. “What?”
    “I helped them steal the boat, didn’t I? The least I can do is help you find it.”
    “You can’t be serious.”
    He stood up to leave. “Whether or not I did it with intent, as the police call it, doesn’t change the facts. I’m at least partly responsible for their getting away with it.”
    “Well, you’re an odd one, I must say.” She regarded him for the first time with something approaching interest. “How old are you?”
    “Forty-three.”
    “You don’t look it.”
    “Thanks,” he said. She didn’t bother to rise. He walked to the door, fighting the stiffness in his leg, but paused with his hand on the knob. “That dinghy—when they found it, were there any oars in it?”
    “No,” she said. “Just the motor.”
    “Was there any gasoline in it? Or did they look?”
    She stared down at the glass in her hand. “They looked,” she said. “It was empty.”
    He nodded. The silence lengthened. “See you in the morning,” he said, and went out.

3
    It was a long time before he got to sleep. On