smiled in a friendly manner, and held out his hand.
“The young explorers, I presume?” he asked. He shook hands with Hannah, then Zachary and Sarah Emily. “I am so pleased to meet you. My name is J.P. King. And you are? . . .”
“How do you do?” said Hannah politely. “I’m Hannah. This is my brother, Zachary, and my sister, Sarah Emily.”
J.P. King resumed his seat and waved his hand hospitably toward Aunt Mehitabel’s horsehair sofa.
“Do sit down and relax,” he said, as if he were the host and the children the visitors.
The children perched on the edge of the sofa. The horsehair was slippery and uncomfortable, and the seat was so high that their feet dangled uncomfortably above the floor. Sarah Emily gripped the arm of the sofa to keep from sliding off.
“What a gift,” Mr. King continued wistfully, “to live on this lovely and unusual island. While passing by in my yacht — perhaps you noticed my yacht, anchored offshore? — I was struck by its unspoiled natural beauty. I spend most of the year in the city — smog, traffic, litter, crowds. You have no idea how lucky you are.”
“It’s a perfectly beautiful boat,” Hannah said. “Why doesn’t it have a name?”
“Privacy, my dear,” Mr. King said. “When one is as rich as I am —” He stopped, looking embarrassed. “Though my wealth is nothing compared to the riches you have here,” he said quietly, gesturing at the window through which there was a view of rocky shoreline and blue bay.
There was a clatter of china in the hallway, and Mrs. Jones scurried in with a loaded tray of food. There was a steaming teapot, mugs of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream, a sliced pound cake, and a plate of oatmeal cookies. She set the tray on a low table in front of the sofa.
“Now, you children see to your guest,” she said. “I’ll make sure there’s more hot water when you need some.” She hurried away, staring back over her shoulder at Mr. King.
“Thank you,” Mr. King said, accepting a cup of tea and a plate with a slice of pound cake. He took a bite. “Delicious.”
“Mrs. Jones is a wonderful cook,” Hannah said.
Mr. King leaned back in his chair, sipping his tea. He crossed his legs in his elegantly creased khaki slacks.
“I understand,” he continued, “that the entire island is owned by your aunt?”
He set his teacup down, picked up one of the jade chess pieces, and began to turn it over and over in his fingers.
“Lovely,” he said.
“Our great-great-aunt,” Zachary said.
“She lives in Philadelphia,” put in Hannah. “She doesn’t allow visitors here.”
Mr. King clamped his hand shut around the chess piece and gave an exclamation of dismay. “I didn’t realize,” he said. “I fear that — believing that the island was deserted, of course — I allowed some of my party to set up a small camp on the beach.”
“I don’t think Aunt Mehitabel would like that,” Sarah Emily said. “She’s a very private person.”
Mr. King sighed. “I can understand wanting to keep this lovely place all to oneself,” he said. “But perhaps when I see her —”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Hannah said. “She was planning to meet us on the island, but it turned out that she couldn’t. She had a fall and broke her ankle.”
“Indeed?” Mr. King said in a startled voice. “So there’s no chance of our meeting?” Deliberately he replaced the chess piece on the board and lifted his cup for another sip of tea. He sounded oddly relieved.
“No,” said Sarah Emily baldly.
“I believe I saw you children playing today,” Mr. King said. “On the hill at the far end of the island. Mrs. Jones tells me it is called Drake’s Hill? What an unusual name.”
The children were silent.
“Do you spend much time there?” Mr. King continued. “It must have a marvelous view.”
“We don’t really go there very often,” said Hannah.
“It’s one of our favorite places,” Sarah Emily