"I don't see how you can stop me," he said, with what sounded almost like a laugh.
"But you can't!" Joan protested. "You mustn't!"
"I can," he said. "If I sit on the floor, I can get my hands out behind me and wiggle backwards, rather like a crab or an inch-worm. I'm doing it now, only I wish I knew where the door was. Oh, Joan, I'm awfully glad you said that, so that they didn't tie me all up."
"I didn't know when I said it that this was what you'd do," she groaned. "Ah, please!"
"That ship—coming along—this minute—in the dark—thinking the Light's there," he said in a queer, flat voice. "Don't keep making it worse, Joan." His voice came from the door now.
Joan's head sank on her chest. She tried to think of nothing, but her mind flew from one dreadful conjecture to another. It seemed to her that it might have been all night that she stood there, numb and agonized. Sometimes she called to him, and always his voice came back very cheerfully. Then—a sudden crash and silence.
"Garth! Oh!" She struggled and wrenched wildly, but the rope only cut her arms and
