The carriage had brought some person or persons to the bungalow and left them there.

Instantly, of course, Brown thought of the artists from Boston.

Probably they had changed their minds and decided to summer at Eastboro after all.

His frown deepened.
Then, from across the cove, from the bungalow, came a shrill scream, a feminine scream.

The assistant started, scarcely believing his ears.
Before he could gather his wits, a stout woman, with a checked apron in her hand, rushed out of the bungalow door, looked about, saw him, and waved the apron like a flag.
"Hi!" she screamed.