Presently a warning whistle from the ferryboat betrayed the fact that they were nearing Sausalito.  Mrs. Richards began to gather up her numerous bundles, and Claire and she made their way down the narrow stairs to the lower deck.  Their progress was slow and uncertain.  The southeaster was tearing across the open spaces and bending everything before it; the lumbering boat dipped sideward in a stolid encounter with its adversary.

“Mercy!  What a night!” gasped Mrs. Richards, clutching at Claire’s arm.

A gust of wind struck them with its force just as they reached the lower deck.  Mrs. Richards staggered and wrestled vainly with tatting-bag and bundles and a refractory skirt.  For the moment both women were stalled in a desperate effort to retain their equilibrium.

“Come!” gasped Claire.  “Let’s get over there in the shelter of that automobile.”

They made the leeward side of the automobile in question, and while Mrs. Richards began to recover her roughly handled dignity Claire turned her attention to the car.  It was a huge dark-red affair, evidently fresh from the shop.  Claire knew none of the fine points of automobiles, but this one had unmistakable evidences of distinction.  She was peering in at its opulent depths when who should surprise her but Ned Stillman.

“My dear Miss Robson!” he cried, in a tone of delight, as he faced her from the opposite side of the car.  “What do you think of it?”

“Yours?” she queried.

“Just out of the shop to-day.  I couldn’t wait until it cleared.  I just had to get out with it.  And this kind of weather always puts me up on my toes.  Where are you going—­to Ross?  If you are, don’t bother with the train.  Come along with me.”

He circled about the machine and came up to her with a frank, outstretched hand.  “Oh, I beg your pardon!” he murmured as Mrs. Richards came into view.

Claire began an introduction, but Mrs. Richards cut in with her odd, challenging way.

“Oh, I know Mr. Stillman!  But I guess he’s forgotten me.  It’s been some years, of course.  At Mr. Faville’s—­your wife’s father’s house.”

Stillman paled for the briefest of moments, but he recovered himself cleverly.  “Mrs. Richards—­of course!  How do you do?  It has been some years.”

“I’m going to Mr. Flint’s—­at Yolanda,” said Claire, “to take some dictation.  He’s been ill, you know.”

“Ill?  No, I hadn’t heard it.  Nothing serious, I hope.”

“Not serious enough to keep Mrs. Flint at home, anyway,” volunteered Mrs. Richards, in her characteristically disagreeable way.

“Mrs. Richards saw Mrs. Flint and the children coming off the boat....”

“As I got on,” interrupted the lady again.

“Oh, indeed, is that so?” Claire fancied that Stillman’s tone held something more than polite acceptance of what he had just heard.  “I can take you ladies to Yolanda if you’d like a spin in the open better than a stuffy ride in the train.”