"Is anything the matter?" asked Miss Barrison.

"No--not yet," I said, ominously.

How on earth could I have overlooked that well-known fact. The hurry
and anxiety, the stress of instant preparation and departure, had
clean driven it from my absent-minded head.

Jogging on over the sand, I sat silent, cudgelling my brains for a
solution of the disastrous predicament I had gotten into. I pictured
the astonished rage of my superior--my probable dismissal from
employment--perhaps the general overturning and smash-up of the entire
expedition.

A distant, dark object on the beach concentrated my distracted
thoughts; it must be the breakwater at Cape Canaveral. And it was the
breakwater, swarming with negro workmen, who were swinging great
blocks of coquina into cemented beds, singing and whistling at their
labor.

I forgot my predicament when I saw a thin white man in sun-helmet and
khaki directing the work from the beach; and as our horses plodded up,
I stepped out and hailed him by name.

"Yes, my name is Rowan," he said, instantly, turning to meet me. His
sharp, clear eyes included the vehicle and the stenographer, and he
lifted his helmet, then looked squarely at me.

"My name is Gilland," I said, dropping my voice and stepping nearer.
"I have just come from Bronx Park, New York."