The fringe of palms was in turn ringed in by a round mile of
flat, sandy country. They followed it south and brushing through
a farther rim of tropical vegetation came out on a pearl-gray
virgin beach where Ardita kicked of her brown golf shoes--she
seemed to have permanently abandoned stockings--and went wading.
Then they sauntered back to the yacht, where the indefatigable
Babe had luncheon ready for them. He had posted a lookout on the
high cliff to the north to watch the sea on both sides, though he
doubted if the entrance to the cliff was generally known--he had
never even seen a map on which the island was marked.

"What's its name," asked Ardita--"the island, I mean?"

"No name 'tall," chuckled Babe. "Reckin she jus' island, 'at's
all."

In the late afternoon they sat with their backs against great
boulders on the highest part of the cliff and Carlyle sketched
for her his vague plans. He was sure they were hot after him by
this time. The total proceeds of the coup he had pulled off and
concerning which he still refused to enlighten her, he estimated
as just under a million dollars. He counted on lying up here
several weeks and then setting off southward, keeping well
outside the usual channels of travel rounding the Horn and
heading for Callao, in Peru. The details of coaling and
provisioning he was leaving entirely to Babe who, it seemed, had
sailed these seas in every capacity from cabin-boy aboard a
coffee trader to virtual first mate on a Brazillian pirate craft,
whose skipper had long since been hung.