Free Dolan of Sugar Hills by Kate Starr Page A

“—the living stuff is lovelier still.
    “This particular collection took some fifteen years to choose and arrange,” he drawled. “Yet you,” he reminded her, “were going to do as much in as many weeks.”
    “I didn’t know then,” breathed Sheila, enrapt. She did not try to defend herself, she just stood and gazed.
    “Is it like this on the Reef?”
    “On the Outer Reef it is, on the Inner Reef the hues are not so vivid. These colors are the original, natural colors, but since they tend to lose some of their brightness away from their seabed, Mandalay freshens them up to keep the tourists’ faith.
    “Here—” he handed her a bouquet of pink, mauve and blue coral set beautifully on a piece of white mushroom coral “—I want you to have this.”
    She accepted it eagerly.
    “Carry it carefully,” instructed the Mandalay collector. “Like a heart, it can break.”
    “Moral: Have no heart,” laughed Cane.
    “Perhaps, Mr. Dolan, but don’t say that about coral.” The proprietor pocketed the note that Cane had passed across.
    Back in the boat, Sheila protested, “You shouldn’t have bought that for me.”
    “Didn’t you want it?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then how would you have bought it yourself?”
    “You’re forgetting I’m now a wage earner, quite a generous wage, Mr. Dolan.”
    “So it’s Mr. Dolan now,” he commented. “Is that because we’ve left the country of first names behind us at last?”
    “Have we this time?” she questioned.
    “We’re traveling due east. We relinquished Australia when we left Mandalay.”
    She nodded, but did not answer what he had asked, the reason why he was Mr. Dolan now, not Cane. She did not know herself why she said that. Was it because when she had abandoned the mainland she had abandoned, too, all influence of Sugar Hills? Was it ... she shivered involuntarily ... because the island was wielding its influence now?
    “How can you possibly find your way?” she asked a little hastily. “Every island is different, yet every island looks the same.”
    “You get to know them. Hayman, of course, since it has become glamorously tourist, is very apparent, but apparent, too, are Lindeman, Brampton, Molle.”
    “And—Silverwake?”
    “And—Silverwake,” he replied.
    Now they were in the Whit Sunday Passage ... the same passage through which Captain Cook had sailed, Matthew Flinders. “And now Sheila Guthrie and Cane Dolan,” he added with a smile.
    Sheila said unexpectedly, as unexpectedly to herself as to the man, “What is your real name?”
    He gave her a long, hard look, but did not answer, and at once she was aware, as she had become aware that afternoon when she had stood and gazed at a picture, that she had made a wrong move.
    She looked at him levelly, still determined to question him, to discover what those wrong moves were, and why, but at that moment he stood up and waved both arms. A motor vessel, trim and white, was dipping by them some distance out. Sheila screwed up her eyes and read The Star.
    “That’s the Roylan boat,” said Cane, “on one of its tourist trips from Mackay. That’s Captain McAllister at the wheel.” He sat down again. “I’m glad he knows we’re around,” he observed to himself.
    Sheila caught the observation, however. “Why?” she asked directly.
    “No reason.” Cane’s answer came promptly, too promptly. Sheila was instantly alerted. She remembered Cane’s glance at the sky this morning.
    “There is a reason,” she stated. “You’re not quite sure of everything, are you?”
    “I’m quite sure it’s time I crossed to Silverwake, that it’s time you crossed,” he returned bluntly.
    “And as sure of your weather?” she insinuated.
    There was a pause, quite a considerable pause. Then Cane Dolan met Sheila’s glance both frankly and calmly. For a moment he did not answer. Then he admitted humbly, “No, I’m not quite sure, Sheila, I’m sorry about that, I think perhaps I may have made a