We shoved off, Ubbo rowing. In two minutes we were on the beach. I was
still too weak to be of much help to Ubbo with the strong-box, and so it
took us some time to get it to the top of the hill. We covered it with
sand and brush to guard against a possible landing party from the
frigates. Shiela's idea that was, and it delayed us another few minutes.

I turned to go. Shiela, she was nervous too, but smiling. "Shiela--"

"You're not going back to the ship?"

"But I must--I must."

"No, you're not--and you must not. Here." She had taken the bewaxed and
beribboned package from her little handbag. It was addressed to "Guy
Villard, Esq., Villard Manor, Chatham County, Ga."

"But who is he?"

"Who is he? Who are you?"

"Guy Blaise."

"No, you're not. Open it and read. Or wait, let me read it."

And it is true that not till then did I suspect. I thought that I might
have been his son, or the son of some wild friend, born of a marriage
on the West Coast or other foreign parts. But of this thing I never had
a suspicion.

I was the baby boy picked up in the wreckage of the burning ship. There