"A gentleman to see you, sir, in the study."

"The devil you say," snapped Danbury.

"I did not say it, sir."

"I wanted to take this gentleman in there. However, we will go to the den."

Danbury led the way through a series of rooms to a smaller room which opened upon the green lawn. It was furnished in mahogany with plenty of large, leather-bottomed chairs and a huge sofa. The walls were decorated with designs of yachts and pictures of dogs. This room evidently was shut off from the main study by the folding doors which were partly concealed by a large tapestry. Danbury poured out a stiff drink of brandy and insisted upon Wilson's swallowing it, which he did after considerable choking.

"Now," said Danbury, "you lie down while John is getting some clothes together, and I'll just slip into the next room and see what my queer friend wants."

Wilson stretched himself out and gave himself up to the warm influx of life which came with the stimulation from the drink. Pound after pound seemed to be lifting from his weary legs and cloud after cloud from his dulled brain. He would soon be able to go back now. He felt a new need for the sight of her, for the touch of her warm fingers, for the smile of good fellowship from her dark eyes. In these last few hours he felt that he had grown wonderfully in his intimacy with her and this found expression in his need of her. Lying there, he felt a craving that bit like thirst or hunger. It was something new to him thus to yearn for another. The sentiment dormant within him had always found its satisfaction in the impersonal in his vague and distant dreams. Now it was as though all those fancies of the past had suddenly been gathered together and embodied in this new-found comrade.

The voices in the next room which had been subdued now rose to a point where some phrases were audible. The younger man seemed to be getting excited, for he kept exclaiming,

"Good. That's bully!"

Their words were lost once more, but Wilson soon heard the sentence,

"I'm with you—with you to the end. But what are you going to get out of this?"

Then for the first time he heard the voice of the other. There was some quality in it that made him start. He could not analyze it, but it had a haunting note as though it went back somewhere in his own past. It made him—without any intention of overhearing the burden of the talk—sit up and listen. It was decidedly the voice of an older man—perhaps a foreigner. But if this were so, a foreigner who had lived long in this country, for the accent consisted of a scarcely perceptible blur. He spoke very slowly and with a cold deliberation that was unpleasant. It was so a judge might pronounce sentence of death. It was unemotional and forbidding. Yet there were little catches in it that reminded Wilson of some other voice which he could not place.

"My friend," came the voice more distinctly, as though the owner had risen and now faced the closed doors between the two rooms, "my friend, the interests I serve are truly different from yours; you serve sentiment; I, justice and revenge. Yet we shall each receive our reward in the same battle." He paused a moment. Then he added,

"A bit odd, isn't it, that such interests as yours and mine should focus at a point ten thousand miles from here?"

"Odd? It's weird! But I'm getting used to such things. I picked up a chap this morning whose story I wouldn't have believed a year ago. Now I've learned that most anything is possible—even you."

"I?"

"Yes, you and your heathen army, and your good English, and your golden idol."

"I object to your use of the word 'heathen,'" the other replied sharply.

Wilson started from his couch, now genuinely interested. But the two had apparently been moving out while this fag-end of the conversation was going on, for their voices died down until they became but a hum. He fell back again, and before he had time to ponder further Danbury hurried in with a suit of clothes over his arm.

"Here," he cried excitedly, "try on these. I must be off again in a hurry. I didn't mean to keep you waiting so long, but we'll make up the time in the machine."

He tossed out a soft felt hat and blue serge suit. Wilson struggled into the clothes. Save that the trousers were a bit short, the things fitted well enough. At any rate, he looked more respectable than in a lounging robe. The latter he cast aside, and as he did so something fell from it. It was a roll of parchment. Wilson had forgotten all about it, and now thrust it in an inside pocket. He would give it back to Sorez, for very possibly it was of some value. He had not thought of it since it had rolled out of the hollow image.

Danbury led the way out the door as soon as Wilson had finished dressing. The latter felt in one of the vest pockets and drew out a ten dollar bill. He stared from Danbury to the money.

"Tuck it away, man, tuck it away," said Danbury.

"I can't tell you——"

"Don't. Don't want to hear it. By the way, you'd better make a note of the location of this house in case you need to find me again. Three hundred and forty Bellevue,—remember it? Here, take my card and write it down."

It took them twenty minutes to reach the foot of Beacon street, and here Wilson asked him to stop.

"I've got to begin my hunt from here. I wish I could make you understand how more than grateful I am."

"Don't waste the time. Here's wishing you luck and let me know how you come out, will you?"

He reached forth his hand and Wilson grasped it.

"I will."

"Well, s'long, old man. Good luck again."

He spoke to the chauffeur. In less than a minute Wilson was alone again on the street where he had stood the night before.



CHAPTER VII

The Game Continues

It was almost noon, which made it eight hours since Wilson was carried out of the house. He had had less than four hours' sleep and only the slight nourishment he had received at the hospital since he and the girl dined at midnight, yet he was now fairly strong. His head felt sore and bruised, but he was free of the blinding ache which so weakened him in the morning. An austere life together with the rugged constitution he inherited from his Puritan ancestors was now standing him in good stead. He turned into the narrow street which ran along the water front in the rear of the Beacon Street houses and began his search for the gate which had admitted him to so many unforeseen complications. The river which had raged so turbulently in the dark was now as mild and blue as the sky above. A few clouds, all that were left of the threatening skies of the morning, scudded before a westerly breeze. It was a fair June day—every house flooded with sunshine until, however humble, it looked for the moment like a sultan's palace. The path before him was no longer a blind alley leading from danger into chaos.

He found that nearly a third of the houses were closed for the summer, and that of these at least one half had small doors leading into fenced courtyards in the rear. There was not a single mark by which he might identify that one which he had battered down. He had only forced the lock so that the door when held closed again would show no sign of having been touched. The priest, or whoever it was who had entered after him, must have taken the same precaution, for every gate was now fast shut. It seemed a hopeless search. Then he happened to remember that the policeman had said that there was glass atop this particular wall. He retraced his steps. The clue was a good one; he discovered with a bounding heart that one alone of all the entrances was so protected. He tried the door, and found to his further relief that it gave readily. He stepped within and closed the gate behind him. He saw then that it had been held by the same piece of joist he himself had used, but had been so hastily and lightly fixed as merely to hold the door shut. He ran across the yard and in another minute was through the window and once again in the lower hall. It was fairly light there now; he did not feel as though this was the same house. This was the third time that he had hurried along this passage on his way to unknown conditions above, and each time, though within a period of less than a full day, had marked a crisis in his life.

As he sprang up the stairs it did not occur to him that he was unarmed and yet running full ahead into what had proven a danger spot. It would have mattered nothing had he realized this. He had not been long enough in such games to value precaution. To reach her side as quickly as possible was the only idea he could grasp now. At the top of the second flight he called her name. He received no reply.

He crossed the hall and pushed aside the curtains which before had concealed his unknown assailant. The blinds were still closed, so that the room was in semi-darkness. The fire had gone out. There was no sign of a human being. Wilson shouted her name once again. The silence closed in upon him oppressively. He saw the dead hearth, saw the chair in which she had curled herself up and gone to sleep, saw the rug upon which Sorez had reclined, saw the very spot where she had sat with the image in her lap, saw where she had stood as she had thrust the revolver into his hand and sent him on his ill-omened errand. But all these things only emphasized her absence. It was as though he were looking upon the scene of events of a year past. She had gone.

He hurried into the next room—the room where Sorez, fainting, had fumbled at the safe until he opened it—the room where he had first seen the image which had really been the source of all his misfortunes. The safe door was closed, but about the floor lay a number of loose papers, as though the safe had been hastily ransacked. The ebony box which had contained the idol was gone. Some of the papers were torn, which seemed to show that this had been done by the owner in preparing for hasty flight rather than by a thief, who would merely rummage through them. Wilson picked up an envelope bearing a foreign postmark. It was addressed to Dr. Carl Sorez, and bore the number of the street where this house was located. The stamp was of the small South American Republic of Carlina and the postmark "Bogova." Wilson thrust the empty envelope in his pocket.

Coming out of here, he next began a systematic examination of every room on that floor. In the boudoir where he had found clothes for the girl, he discovered her old garments still hanging where she had placed them to dry. Her dress was spread across the back of a chair, her stockings were below them, and her tiny mud-bespattered shoes on the floor. They made him start as though he had suddenly come upon the girl herself. He crossed the room and almost timidly placed his hands upon the folds of the gown. These things were so intimate a part of her that it was almost like touching her hand. It brought up to him very vividly the picture of her as she stood shivering with the cold, all dripping wet before the flames. His throat ached at the recollection. It had never occurred to him that she might vanish like this unless, as he had half feared, he might return to find Sorez dead. This new turn left him more bewildered than ever. He went into every room of the house from attic to cellar and returned again to the study with only this fact of her disappearance to reward him for his efforts of the last three hours.

Had this early morning intruder abducted them both, or had they successfully hidden themselves until after he left and then, in a panic, fled? Had the priest, fearing for Wilson's life, thrown him into the carriage rather than have on his hands a possible murder? Or after the priest had gone did Sorez find him and take this way to rid himself of an influence that might destroy his power over the girl? This last would have been impossible of accomplishment if the girl herself knew of it. The other theories seemed improbable. At any rate, there was little use in sitting here speculating, when the problem still remained of how to locate the girl.

He made his way back to the safe and examined some of the torn letters; they were all in Spanish. A large part of them bore the same postmark, "Bogova, Republic of Carlina." The sight of the safe again recalled to him the fact that he still had in his possession the parchment which had dropped from the interior of the idol. It was possible that this might contain some information which would at any rate explain the value which these two men evidently placed upon it. He took it out of his pocket and looked at it with some curiosity. It was very tightly rolled in a covering of what appeared to be oilskin. He cut the threads which held it together and found a second covering sewed with sinew of some sort. This smelled musty. Cutting this, he found still a third covering of a finely pounded metal looking like gold-foil. This removed revealed a roll of parchment some four inches long and of about an inch in thickness. When unrolled Wilson saw that there were two parchments; one a roughly drawn map, and the other a document covered with an exceedingly fine script which he could not in this light make out at all. Without a strong magnifying glass, not a word was decipherable. He thrust it back in his pocket with a sense of disappointment, when he recalled that he could take it to the Public Library which was not far from there and secure a reading glass which would make it all clear. He would complete his investigation in the house and then go to the reading room where he had spent so much of his time during the first week he was in Boston.

He picked up several fragments of the letters scattered about, in the hope of obtaining at least some knowledge of Sorez. The fact that the man had stopped to tear them up seemed to prove that he had made plans to depart for good, sweeping everything from the safe and hastily destroying what was not valuable. Wilson knew a little Spanish and saw that most of the letters were of recent date and related to the death of a niece. Others mentioned the unsettled condition of government affairs in Carlina. At one time Sorez must have been very close to the ruling party, for several of the letters were from a man who evidently stood high in the ministry, judged by the intimacy which he displayed with affairs of state. He spoke several times of the Expedition of the Hills, in which Sorez had apparently played a part. But the most significant clause which Wilson found in his hasty examination of the remnants was this reference:

"There is still, I hear, a great bitterness felt among the Mountain tribes over the disappearance of the idol of their Sun God. They blame this on the government and more than half suspect that you were an important factor in its vanishing. Have a care and keep a sharp lookout. You know their priest is no ordinary man. They have implicit faith that he will charm it back to them."

This was dated three months before. Wilson put the few remaining bits of this letter in his pocket. Was it possible that this grinning idol which already had played so important a part in his own life was the one mentioned here? And the priest of whom Sorez spoke—could it be he who ruled these tribes in the Andes? It was possible—Lord, yes, anything was possible. But none of these things hinted as to where the girl now was.

He came back into the study and took a look into the small room to the left. He saw his own clothes there. He had forgotten all about them. They were wrinkled and scarcely fit to wear—all but his old slouch hat. He smiled as he recalled that at school it was thought he showed undue levity for a theological student in wearing so weather-beaten and rakish a hat. He was glad of the opportunity to exchange for it the one he now wore. He picked it up from the chair where it lay. Beneath the rim, but protruding so as to be easily seen, was a note. He snatched it out, knowing it was from her as truly as though he had heard her voice. It read:

"DEAR COMRADE:

I don't know what has become of you, but I know that if you're alive you'll come back for me. We are leaving here now. I haven't time to tell you more. Go to the telephone and ring up Belmont 2748.

Hastily, your comrade, JO MANNING."

Wilson caught his breath. With the quick relief he felt almost light-headed. She was alive—she had thought of him—she had trusted him! It deepened the mystery of how he had come to be carried from the house—of where they succeeded in hiding themselves—but, Lord, he was thankful for it all now. He would have undergone double what he had been through for the reward of this note—for this assurance of her faith in him. It cemented their friendship as nothing else could. For him it went deeper. The words, "You'll come back here for me," tingled through his brain like some sweet song. She was alive—alive and waiting for him to come back. There is nothing finer to a man than this knowledge, that some one is waiting his return. It was an emotion that Wilson in his somewhat lonely life had never experienced save in so attenuated a form as not to be noticeable. He lingered a moment over the thought, and then, crushing the old hat—now doubly dear—over his bandaged head, hurried out of this house in which he had run almost the gamut of human emotions. He went out by the laundry window, closing it behind him, across the courtyard, and made the street without being seen. That was the last time, he thought, that he would ever set foot within that building. He didn't find a public telephone until he reached Tremont Street. He entered the booth with his heart beating up in his throat. It didn't seem possible that when a few minutes ago he didn't know whether she was dead or alive, that he could now seat himself here and hope to hear her voice. His hand trembled as he took down the receiver. It seemed an eternity before he got central; another before she connected him with Belmont. He grew irritable with impatience over the length of time that elapsed before he heard,

"A dime, please."

He was forced to drop the receiver and go out for change. Every clerk was busy, but he interrupted one of them with a peremptory demand for change. The clerk, taken by surprise, actually obeyed the command without a word. When Wilson finally succeeded in getting the number, he heard a man's voice, evidently a servant. The latter did not know of a Miss Manning. Who did live there? The servant, grown suspicious and bold, replied,

"Never mind now, but if ye wishes to talk with any Miss Manning ye can try somewheres else. Good-bye."

"See here—wait a minute. I tell you the girl is there, and I must talk to her."

"An' I'm telling ye she isn't."

"Is there a Mr. Sorez there——"

"Oh, the man who is just after comin'? Wait a minute now," he put in more civilly, "an' I'll see, sor."

Wilson breathed once more. He started at every fairy clicking and jingle which came over the waiting line.

"Waiting?"

He almost shouted his reply in fear lest he be cut off.

"Yes! Yes! waiting. Don't cut me off. Don't——"

"Is this you?"

The voice came timidly, doubtingly—with a little tremor in it, but it was her voice.

He had not known it long, and yet it was as though he had always known it.

"Jo—comrade—are you safe?"

"Yes, and you? Oh, David!" she spoke his name hesitatingly, "David, where did you go?"

"I was hurt a little. I lost consciousness."

"Hurt, David?"

"Not seriously, but that is why I couldn't come back. I was carried to a hospital."

"David!"

Her voice was tender with sympathy.

"And you—I came back to the study for you. You were gone."

"We were hidden. There is a secret room where we stayed until daylight."

"Then it was——"

"The priest. Sorez was so weak and frightened."

"He came for the image?"

"Yes, but he did not get it. Was it he who—who hurt you, David?"

"It must have been. It was just as I came into the study."

"And he carried you out?"

"Because he thought the house empty, I guess, and feared I was hurt worse than I was."

"And you really are not badly hurt?"

"Not badly."

"But how much—in what way?"

"Just a blow on the head. Please not to think about it."

"I have thought so many horrible things."

"Where are you now?"

"Mr. Sorez did not dare to stay there. He really is much stronger, and so he came here to a friend's. I did not dare to let him come alone."

"But you aren't going to stay there. What are you going to do now?"

He thought she hesitated for a moment.

"I can't tell, David. My head is in such a whirl."

"You ought to go back home," he suggested.

"Home? My home is with my father, and nowhere else."

"I want to see you."

"And I want to see you, David, but——"

"I'm coming out there now."

"No! no! not yet, David."

"Why not?"

"Because——"

"Why not? I must see you."

"Because," she said, as though with sudden determination, "because first I wish to make up my mind to something. I must do it by myself, David."

"I'll not disturb you in that. I just wish to see you."

"But you would disturb me."

"How?"

"I can't tell you."

There was a moment's pause. Then,

"David, I may go away a long distance."

"Where?"

"I can't tell you now, but I may go at once. This—this may be the last time I can talk with you for—oh, for months."

He caught his breath.

"What do you mean by that? What has happened?"

"I have promised not to tell."

"But you must, girl. Why—you—this man Sorez has no right to exact promises from you. He——"

"You don't understand, David. It—it has to do with my father and with—with what I saw."

"In that cursed image?"

"Yes, the image. But it is not cursed, David."

"It is—it is if it takes you away."

"You see," she trembled, "you see, I can't discuss it with you."

"But I don't see. I think you ought—you must——"

"Must, David?"

"No—not that. I suppose I haven't the right, only—well, it sort of takes my breath away, you see, to think of your going off—out of my life again."

"It's odd that you should mind—I've been in it so short a time."

"You've been in it for years," he ran on impulsively. "You've been in it ever since I learned to look between the stars and found you there."

There was silence for a moment, and then he heard her voice,

"David."

"Yes."

"I have a feeling that I may come back into it again."

"You'll never go out of it. I'll not let you. I'll——"

"Don't be foolish, David. And now I must go. But, David—are you listening, David?"

"Yes."

"Don't try to find me. Don't try to see me. I'm safe, but if I should need you, I'll send for you. Will you come?"

"To the ends of the earth."

"You must not ring me up again. But before I go away, if I do go away, I'll write to you and tell you where. I will write you in care of the General Delivery, Boston—will that reach you?"

"Yes, but——"

"That is all, David. That must be all now, for I must go. Good-bye."

"Jo—comrade!"

"Good-bye."

"Just a minute, I——"

But he heard the little click of the receiver and knew that she had gone.



CHAPTER VIII

Of Gold and Jewels Long Hidden

Reluctantly Wilson placed the receiver back upon the hook. It was as though he were allowing her hand to slip out of his—as though he were closing a door upon her. The phrase, "Good-bye," still rang in his ears, but grew fainter and fainter, receding as in a dream. He stared blankly at the telephone instrument. Some one opened the door, anxious to use the booth. This roused him. He came out into the store, and the life around him brought him to himself once more. But what did this new development mean? Where was Sorez leading her, and what inducement was he offering? Her father she had said. Doubtless the man was holding out to her promises of locating him. But why? His mind reverted to the idol. It was that. He wished to use her psychic power for some purpose connected with this image. And that? He had a parchment within his pocket which might explain it all!

This furnished him an objective which for the moment gave him rest from useless speculation. But even while walking to the library he felt a new and growing passion within him: bitterness towards the man who was responsible for taking her away from him. That Sorez' claim of being able to find the girl's father was merely to cover a selfish object was of course obvious. He was playing upon her fancy and sympathy. How the girl must love this father to be lured from home by the chance phantom in a crystal picture—to be willing to follow a stranger half around the globe, perhaps, because of his promise and a dream. Yet, it was so he knew that her nature must love—it was so he would have her love. It was this capacity for fanatical devotion which struck a responsive chord in his own heart. Her love would not allow her to have her father dead even though the report came. Her love admitted no barriers of land or sea. If so she was inspired by calm, filial love, what would she not do for love of her mate? If this mysterious stranger had but died—he clenched his teeth. That was scarcely a humane or decent thing to wish.

He found a chair in one corner of the reading room and borrowed the most powerful reading glass used in the library. It was only by showing his manuscript that he was able to secure it. Even then they looked at him a bit askance, and made him conscious once more that his head was still bandaged. He had forgotten all about this, and in another minute he had forgotten all about it once again.

One of the manuscripts which he spread out upon the desk before him contained but little writing. A crudely drawn map filled almost the entire space. A drawing in the upper left-hand corner represented a blazing sun, and in the lower left-hand corner another gave the points of the compass. This doubtless served to illustrate the contents of the other manuscript.

The parchment had been rolled so long and so tightly that it was almost impossible to straighten it out. He worked carefully for fear of cracking it. It was a matter requiring some patience, and consumed the best part of half an hour. He found that the writing had been preserved wonderfully well although, as he learned later, many of the words were so misspelled or poorly written as to be undecipherable. The writing itself was painfully minute and labored—as though each letter had been formed with the greatest effort and considerable uncertainty. It was as though the author were thoroughly conversant with Latin—for it was in that tongue—but as a spoken rather than a written language. It was such Latin as might be written by a man who knew his Vulgate and prayers by heart, but who had little other use for the language. In places, where evidently the author did not know a word, he had used a symbol as though the common medium of communication with him were some sign language.

With what sort of an instrument the writing had been done it was impossible to conceive, for it was as fine as could be accomplished with the finest steel engraving. It occurred to Wilson that possibly this had been done with a view towards making it illegible to any ordinary eyes which should chance to see it. With all these difficulties it was as much as Wilson could do to make anything at all out of the parchment. But he found the work absorbing, and as he began to get an inkling of what he really held in his hands, lost himself altogether in his task. At the end of three hours, which had passed like so many minutes, he took a piece of paper and wrote down the result of his work, leaving dashes for words which he had been unable to make out. He had this broken message:

"I, Manco Capac, priest of the Gilded Man leave this for my brothers, fearing — from strangers with —. When I heard Quesada was near and learned that he was about to — the lake I called twenty of the faithful and with great — we — piece by piece, using — to — the gifts from the bottom. Many pieces we — but much gold, gifts of plate, and — with — jewels we reached. In all six hundred and forty-seven pieces we carried to where they now rest. I will make a chart so that it may —. But beware for — the foot stumbles — death to all — except those who —. The Gilded Man is strong and will — blood and the power of the hills. I alone know and I am about to die. The other faithful children, leaped from — and their bodies I — where they are protected by —. Never must be taken from this — for — if —. Those who — death.

The gold I — in the farther cave where —, but the jewels are — beneath and —. The place is — upon the map which I have made. This I have truly written for those who —. The hand of the Gilded Man will crush any who —."

Wilson, his blood running fast, sat back and thought. It was clear that the struggle over the image was a struggle for this treasure. Neither man knew of the existence of this map. The priest fought to preserve the idol because of its sacredness as guardian of what to him was doubtless a consecrated offering to the Sun God; Sorez, acquiring it with the tradition that the image held the secret, thought that with the psychic gift of the girl he had solved the riddle. This much seemed a reasonable explanation. But where was this treasure, and of what did it consist? He turned to the second parchment. At the end of an hour he had before him a half page of minute directions for approaching the treasure from the starting-point of a hut in the mountains. But where were these mountains? He had two names which might be good clues. One was "Quesada," the old Spanish adventurer, of whom Wilson had a faint recollection. It was possible that in the history of his day some mention might be made of this expedition. The other name was "Guadiva," which appeared on the map as the name of a lake. Many of the old Spanish names still remained. A good atlas might mention it.

He investigated the latter hint first. He was rewarded at once. "Guadiva" was a small lake located in the extinct volcanic cone of Mt. Veneza, beyond the upper Cordilleras. It was remarkable chiefly for a tradition which mentions this as one of the hiding places of a supposed vast treasure thrown away by the Chibcas that it might escape the hands of Quesada.

Starting with this, Wilson began a more detailed search through the literature bearing upon these South American tribes, Spanish conquest, and English treasure hunting. He was surprised to find a great deal of information. Almost without exception, however, this particular treasure which had sent Quesada to his grave a pauper, which had lured from quiet England Raleigh, Drake, and Leigh was thought to be a myth. The hours passed and Wilson knew nothing of their passing. It was eight o'clock before he paused once more to summarize the result of his reading. In the light of the key which lay before him, the possibilities took away his breath. His quick imagination spanned the gaps in the narrative until he had a picture before his eyes that savored of the Arabian Nights. It was a glittering quest—this which had tempted so many men, for the prize was greater than Cortez had sought among the Aztecs, or Pizarro in his bloody conquest of the Incas.

He saw many thousands of the faithful Chibcas, most powerful of all the tribes upon the Alta plain, which lies a green level between the heights of the white summits of the Andes, toiling up the barren lava sides of Mount Veneza to where, locked in its gray cone, lies the lake of Guadiva. He saw this lake smiling back at the blue sky, its waters clear as the mountain air which ripples across its surface. The lake of Guadiva! How many bronzed men had whispered this name and then dropped upon their knees in prayer. To Quesada it was just a mirror of blue with unsearchable depths, but he lived to learn how much more it meant to the lithe bronze men.

For while the great world beyond was fighting through the rumbling centuries over its Christ, its Buddha, its Mahomet, a line of other men plodded the stubborn path to this beloved spot, their shoulders bent beneath their presents, and made their prayer and offered their gifts to the Gilded Man who lived below the waters. A tenth, more often a half, of all the richness of the plains of Alta was offered there in tribute to him who was their god. He had blessed these people generously, and mighty was their offering. Upon a single feast day, tradition had it, a hundred mules with tinkling silver bells followed the high priest, in scarlet robes, to the tiny cone, their sharp feet clawing the lava road, their strong backs aching beneath the precious burden. This was then transferred to rafts and gay barges by men blindfolded by the priests and taken to the secret spot which lay above the sunken shrine. The worshipers knelt in prayer beneath the uplifted arms of their pious leaders, then raised high their golden bowls. For a moment they glinted in the sun, then flashed a mellow path beneath the waves which leaped to meet them. Jewels, rarer than any Roman conquerors found, here kissed the sun as they were tossed high, then mingled with the crystal lake like falling stars.

Here it was that Quesada, the adventurous Spaniard, had sought this treasure. He organized a horde of gold-lustful minions and descended upon the Chibcas. The latter were not by nature fighters, but they stood their ground for their god, and fought like demons. Quesada forcing his way over their bleeding bodies, killing even the women who had armed themselves with knives, pressed up the rocky trail to where the tiny lake lay as peaceful as a sleeping child. With hands upon his hips, he gazed into the waters and smiled. Then he gave his orders and for many weeks the eager soldiers dug and sweated in the sun under the direction of the shrewdest engineers of the age in the attempt to drain the lake. An outlet was finally made and the lake sunk foot by foot while the trusting folk below made their prayers and waited. The answer came. One day when Quesada saw the treasure almost within his grasp, there was a mighty rumbling, a crash of falling stone, and behold! an avalanche of granite raged down, killing many of the soldiers, routing the rest, and filled in the man-made channel. Quesada ordered with fierce oath, but not a man would return to the work. He was forced to retreat, and died in poverty and shame.

The years rolled on and still the tributes sank beneath the waves. Now and then some hardy traveler returned with a tale of the unlimited wealth that was going to waste. One such, driven over the seas, came to Raleigh and reported that he had seen, in a single procession forming to climb the hill, treasure packed upon mules to the value of one hundred thousand English pounds.

"There were diamonds," so ran the chronicle, "larger than a man's thumb and of a clearness surpassing anything even among the crown jewels. I saw also topaz, sapphires, garnets, turquoises, and opals—all of a beauty greater than any I ever before saw. As for gold, it seems of no value whatever, so generously did they heave it into the lake."

Leigh sought three years and came back empty handed, but more convinced than ever that the treasure existed. Many of the Spaniards who swooped down upon the Chibcas did not return empty handed, although they failed to find the source of the El Dorado. They saw many strange customs which proved that gold in abundance was located somewhere within this small area. They saw the chiefs of the tribes cover themselves each morning with resin and then sprinkle powdered gold over their bodies until they looked as though in golden armor. This was washed off at sunset, after the evening prayer to the burning planet which they believed to be the source of all their wealth. At their death their graves were lined with jewels. The Spanish governors who later looted these tombs recovered enormous amounts; one grave yielding $18,000, another $20,000 in gold strips, and still another $65,000 in emeralds, gold chains, arrows, and other implements of beaten gold.

But the greatest incentive to the search had always been the detailed account left by Fray Pedro Simon, who for twenty years lived among these tribes as missionary, preceding Valverde, known as the Priest of the Hills.

"But the great treasure was in the lake," he wrote in his letters.

"There was no stint of gold, jewelry, emeralds, food, and other things sacrificed here when a native was in trouble. With prescribed ceremonies, two ropes were taken and attached to the rafts which were drawn to that portion of the lake where the altar was supposed to be, below the surface. Two zipas, or priests, would accompany the person wishing to make the sacrifice on rafts which were composed of bundles of dried sticks or flotsam, tied one to another, or made from planks in the form of a punt holding three or more persons. By this means they would reach the altar and, using certain words and ceremonies, throw in their offerings, small or large, according to their means. In further reference to this lake, it was the principal and general place of worship for all this part of the country, and there are those still alive who state that they witnessed the burial of many caciques who left orders that their bodies and all their wealth be thrown in the waters. When it was rumored that the bearded men (the Spaniards) had entered the country in search of gold, many of the Indians brought their hoarded treasures and offered them as sacrifices in the lake, so that they should not fall into the hands of the Spaniards. The present cacique of the village of Simijaca alone threw into the lake forty loads of gold of one quintal each, carried by forty Indians from the village, as is proven by their own statements and those of the nephew of the cacique sent to escort the Indians."

Forty quintals, Wilson computed, is L8820, which would make this single offering worth to-day $26,460,000!

He looked up from the dry, crisp documents in front of him and glanced about the room. The tables were lined with readers; a schoolgirl scowling over her notes, pencil to her pouting lips, an old man trying to keep his eyes open over his magazine, a young student from Technology, and a possible art student. Beyond these, there were workingmen and clerks and middle-aged bachelors. Truly they were an ordinary looking lot—prosaic enough, even mediocre, some of them. This was the twentieth century, and they sat here in this modern library reading, perhaps, tales of adventure and hidden treasure. Outside, the trolley cars clanged past. The young man attendant glanced up from his catalogue, yawned, studied the clock, and yawned again.

Wilson looked at them all; then back at his parchment.

Yes, it was still there before his eyes, and represented a treasure of probably half a billion dollars in gold and precious stones!



CHAPTER IX

A Stern Chase

Wilson came out into the night with a sense of the world having suddenly grown larger. He stood on the broad stone steps of the library, breathing deep of the June air, and tried to get some sort of a sane perspective. Below him lay Copley Square; opposite him the spires of Trinity Church stood against the purple of the sky like lances; to the right the top of Westminster was gay with its roof garden, while straight ahead Boylston street stretched a brilliant avenue to the Common. Wilson liked the world at night; he liked the rich shadows and the splendor of the golden lights, and overhead the glittering stars with the majestic calm between them. He liked the night sounds, the clear notes of trolley bell and clattering hoofs unblurred by the undertone of shuffling feet. Now he seemed to have risen to a higher level where he saw and heard it all much more distinctly. The power and, with the power, the freedom which he felt with this tremendous secret in his possession filled him with new life. He lost the sense of being limited, of being confined. A minute ago this city, at least, had imprisoned him; now his thoughts flew unrestrained around half the globe. But more than anything else it made him stand better in his own eyes before the girl. He need no longer await the whims of chance to bring her to him; he could go in search of her. Somehow he had never thought of her as a girl to be won by the process of slow toil—by industry; she must be seized and carried away at a single coup. The parchment which rustled crisply in his pocket whispered how.

The chief immediate value of the secret lay to him in the power it gave him to check Sorez in whatever influence he might have gained over the girl. As soon as he could convince Sorez that the girl's psychic powers were of no use to him in locating the treasure, he would undoubtedly lose interest in her. Strangely enough, Wilson felt no moral scruples in retaining the map which he had found so accidentally; to him it was like treasure-trove. If it rightly belonged to anyone, it belonged to this fanatical priest and his people.

In some way, then, he must communicate with Jo before it was too late. He knew that it was impossible to locate her through the telephone; the numbers were not all recorded in the book, and Central was not allowed to divulge the location of any of them. However, he would try to reach her again over the wire in the morning. If unsuccessful at this, he must wait for her letter. In the meanwhile he would have plenty to do in pursuing further investigation into the history and topography of the country covered by his map. Of course, a great difficulty ahead of him was lack of funds. But, if worse came to worse, he thought it might be possible to interest someone in the project. There were always men readier to finance a venture of this sort than a surer and less romantic undertaking. He would feel better, however, to investigate it alone if possible, even if it cost him a great deal of time and labor. All those problems, however, were for the future—its present worth lay in the influence it gave him with Sorez.

He came down the library steps and started to cross the square with a view to walking, but he found his legs weak beneath him. The best thing he could do now, he thought, was to devote some attention to the recovery of his strength. He still had the change from his ten dollars, and with this recollection he felt a fresh wave of gratitude for the man who had helped him so opportunely. He must look him up later on. He boarded a car and, going down town, entered a restaurant on Newspaper Row. Here he ordered beefsteak, potatoes, and a cup of coffee. He enjoyed every mouthful of it and came out refreshed but sleepy. He went up town to one of the smaller hotels and secured a room with a bath. After a warm tub, he turned in and slept without moving until he awoke with the sun streaming into the room. He felt the old springiness in his body as he leaped out of bed, and a courage and joy beyond any he had ever known at thought of Jo and the treasure. These two new elements in his life came to him in the morning with all the freshness and vividness of their original discovery. In the full glare of the morning sun they seemed even more real than the night before. He drew the parchment from beneath his pillow, where he had hidden it, and looked it over once more before dressing. No, it was not a dream; it was as real a thing as the commonplace furnishings of the room.

He took a plunge in cold water and hurried through his dressing in order to reach the post-office as soon as possible. He could not believe his eyes when he came downstairs and saw the clock hands pointing at twelve. He had slept over fourteen hours. Without waiting for breakfast, he hurried up town and inquired for his mail. There was nothing. He was bitterly disappointed for he had felt sure that she would write him. It did not seem possible that he could go on waiting patiently without at least one more talk with her. Though he knew it was against her wish, he made up his mind to call her up once more. He went to the nearest telephone and, asking for the number, received at the end of five minutes the reply:

"That number doesn't answer, sir."

"There must be some mistake. I used it yesterday."

"I'll try again."

He waited several minutes. The droning voice came once more.

"I get no answer, sir."

"Ring 'em hard. I know there is someone there."

But nothing Central could do roused any reply. Either the line was out of order or the occupants of the house refused to answer the call. He left the booth with an uneasy feeling that something was wrong with the girl. He should not have allowed her to leave the telephone without telling him her address. It was possible she was held a prisoner—possible that Sorez, failing to persuade her to go with him in any other way, might attempt to abduct her. Doubtless she had told him her story, and he knew that with only an indifferent housekeeper to look after the girl no great stir would be made over her disappearance. Like dozens of others, she would be accounted for as having gone to the city to work. The more he thought of it, the more troubled he became. One thing was certain; under these circumstances he could no longer remain passive and wait for her letter. The chances were that she would not be allowed to write.

He had intended to go out and see Danbury that afternoon, but he made up his mind to take a car and go to Belmont on the chance of securing, through the local office, some information which would enable him to trace the house. If worse came to worse, he might appeal to the local police for aid.

Before starting, he returned to the hospital and had his wound examined. It was in good condition and the surgeon was able this time to use a very much smaller dressing.

"Will it need any further treatment?" Wilson inquired.

"You ought to have the dressing changed once more, but on a pinch even that will not be necessary so long as the cut keeps clean. If, however, it begins to pain you, that means trouble. Don't neglect it a day if that happens. But I don't anticipate anything of the sort. Probably you can have the stitches out in a week."

It was a relief to be able to go out upon the street again without attracting attention. The snapshot judgment upon every man with a bandaged head is that he has been in a street fight—probably while intoxicated. He bought a clean collar and a tie and indulged in the luxury of a shoe polish and a shave. When he stepped out upon the street after this he looked more like himself than he had for six months. Had it not been for his anxiety over the girl, he would have felt exultant, buoyant.

The Belmont car took him through green fields and strips of woods rich leaved and big with sap. The sun flecked them with gold and a cooling breeze rustled them musically. After the rain of the night before the world looked as fresh as though new made. He was keenly sensitive to it all and yet it mingled strangely with the haunting foreign landscape of his imagination—a landscape with a background of the snow-tipped summits of the Andes, a landscape with larger, cruder elements. He felt as though he stood poised between two civilizations. His eyes met the conventional details of surroundings among which he had been born and brought up; he was riding on an open trolley car, surrounded by humdrum fellow-passengers who pursued the sober routine of their lives as he had expected, until within a day, to do, passing through a country where conditions were settled—graded, as it were, so that each might lay his track and move smoothly upon it; and yet his thoughts moved among towering mountains untouched by law, among people who knew not the meaning of a straight path, among heathen gods and secret paths to hidden gold. Yes, sitting here staring at the stereotyped inscription upon the wooden seat-back before him, "Smoking on the three rear seats only"—sitting here in the midst of advertisements for breakfast foods, canned goods, and teas,—sitting here with the rounded back of the motorman and the ever moving brass brake before his eyes, he still felt in his pocket the dry parchment which had lain perhaps for centuries in the heart of a squat idol. While riding through the pretty toy suburbs in the comfort of an open car, he was still one with Raleigh and his adventurous crew sailing the open seas; while still a fellow with these settled citizens of a well-ordered Commonwealth, he was, too, comrade to the reckless Quesada—lured by the same quest. And this was not a dream—it was not a story—it was dead, sober reality. The world about him now was no vision; he saw, felt, and smelled it; the other was equally real, he had shared in a struggle to possess it, he had the testimony of his eyes to substantiate it, and the logic of his brain to prove it. If the wound upon his head was real, if this girl in search of whom he was now bent was real, if that within his pocket was real—if, in brief, he were not a lunatic in complete subjection to a delusion—then, however extravagant it might appear, all was real.

The fact which made it substantial, as nothing else did, was the girl—the girl and all she meant to him. It must be a very genuine emotion to turn the world topsy-turvy for him as it had. This afternoon for instance, it was she who filled the sunbeams with golden light, who warmed the blue sky until it seemed of hazy fairy stuff, who sang among the leaves, who urged him on with a power that placed no limit on distance or time. Within less than a day she had so obsessed him as to cause him to focus upon the passion the entire strength of his being. The fortune of gold and jewels before him was great, but if necessary he could sacrifice it without hesitancy to bring her nearer to him. That was secondary and so was everything which lay between him and that one great need.

He sought out the telephone exchange at Belmont at once and was referred to the superintendent. He found the latter a brisk, unimaginative man—a creature of rules and regulations.

"Can't do it," he said gruffly.

Wilson went a little further into details. The girl was very possibly a prisoner—very possibly in danger.

"Go to the police with your story."

"That means the newspapers," answered Wilson. "I don't wish the affair made public. I may be altogether wrong in my suspicions, but they are of such a nature that they ought to be investigated."

"Sorry, but the rule cannot be broken."

Wilson spent fifteen minutes longer with him, but the man impatiently rose.

"That number is not listed," he said finally, "and under no circumstances are we allowed to divulge it. You will have to go to the police if you want help."

But Wilson had no idea of doing that. He still had one chance left—a ruse which had occurred to him as he left the office. He went down stairs and to the nearest telephone, where he rang up Information.

"Central?"

"Yes, sir."

"My line—Belmont 2748—is out of order. Can you send an inspector up at once?"

"I'll see, sir."

In a minute the reply came.

"Yes, we can send a man right up."

"One thing more—from where does the inspector start? The house is closed, but I'll send my man along to go up with him."

There was a wait of a few minutes. Wilson almost held his breath. Then came the answer:

"The inspector leaves from the central office. Have your man ask for Mr. Riley."

"In twenty minutes?"

"Yes, sir."

Wilson went out and walked around the block. He had told a deliberate lie and was perpetrating a downright fraud, but he felt no conscientious scruples over it. It was only after he had exhausted every legitimate method that he had resorted to this. When he came around to the entrance door again he found a young man standing there with a tool bag in his hand. He stepped up to him.

"This Mr. Riley?"

"Yes, sir."

"I was to tell you to go on right out to the house. The man is there."

"All right, sir."

Wilson started on, but stopped to look into the drugstore window. The man went down the street to the car corner. Wilson again circled the block and waited until he saw Riley board the car on the front platform. He kept out of sight until the car had almost passed him and then swung on to the rear. The stratagem was simplicity itself.

At the end of a ten-minute ride the inspector swung off and at the next corner Wilson followed. It was easy enough to keep the man in sight, and apparently he himself had escaped detection. The inspector approached a modest looking house setting a bit back from the road and, going to the front door, rang the bell. At the end of perhaps three minutes he rang again. At the end of another five he rang a third time. The curtains were down in the front windows, but that was not uncommon in hot June days. The inspector went to the rear. In a few minutes he came back. He tried the door once more and then, apparently bewildered, came out. He hung around for some ten minutes more, and then, returning to the corner, took the first car back.

It seemed clear enough that the occupants of the house were gone, but Wilson waited a few minutes longer, unwilling to accept the possibilities this suggested. He even went up and tried the bell himself. A servant from the neighboring house called across to him:

"They all drove off in a carriage an hour ago, sir," she said.

"How many of them?" he asked.

"Mr. Davis and his aunt and his friend, the old man, and the young girl—all of them."

"But the servants——"

"Ain't but one—old man Sullivan," she answered with some scorn.

"And they went where?"

"Lord, now how d' ye suppose I know that?"

For a second Wilson looked so disconsolate that she offered her last bit of information.

"They took their trunks with 'em."

"Thanks," he replied as he turned on his heels and ran for the approaching car.

He made it. During the ride in town his mind was busy with a dozen different conjectures, each wilder than the preceding one. He was hoping against hope that she had written him and that her letter now awaited him in the post-office.

Reaching the Federal Building, he waited breathlessly at the tiny window while the indifferent clerk ran over the general mail. With a large bundle of letters in his hand he skimmed them over and finally paused, started on, returned, and tossed out a letter. Wilson tore it open. It was from Jo. It read:

"DEAR COMRADE:

I have made my decision—I am going with Dr. Sorez to Bogova, South America. I have just written them at home and now I am writing you as I promised. I'm afraid you will think, like the others, that I am off on a senseless quest; but perhaps you won't. If only you knew how much my father is to me! Dr. Sorez is sure he is still living. I know he used to go to Carlina, of which Bogova is the capitol. Why he should let us believe him dead is, of course, something for me to learn. At any rate, I am off, and off—to-day. The priest makes it unsafe for Dr. Sorez to remain here any longer. You see, I have a long journey before me. But I love it. I'm half a sailor, you know.

I am writing this in the hope that you will receive it in time to meet me at the steamer—the Columba, a merchantman. It sails at four from Pier 7, East Boston. If not, let me tell you again how much I thank you for what you have done—and would do. From time to time I shall write to you, if you wish, and you can write to me in care of Dr. Carl Sorez, the Metropole, Bogova, Carlina. When I come back we must meet again. Good luck to you, comrade.

Sincerely yours, JO MANNING."

Meet her at the steamer! The boat sailed at four. It was now quarter of. He ran from the building to Washington street. Here he found a cab.

"Five dollars," he panted, "if you get me to Pier 7, East Boston, at four o'clock."

He jumped in and had hardly closed the door before the cabby had brought his whip across the flanks of the dozing horse. The animal came to life and tore down Washington Street at a pace that threatened to wreck the vehicle. The wheels skimmed sides of electric cars and brushed the noses of passing teams. A policeman shouted, but the cabby took a chance and kept on. Down Atlantic Avenue the light cab swayed from side to side, swerving to within a hair's distance of the elevated structure. They wasted five precious minutes at the Ferry. From here the distance was short. At one end of the wharf Wilson sprang through the small group of stevedores who, their work done, were watching the receding steamer. He was too late by five minutes. But he pushed on to the very tip of the wharf in his endeavor to get as near as possible to the boat. The deck looked deserted save for the bustling sailors. Then Fate favored him with one glance of her. She had come up from below, evidently for a last look at the wharf. He saw her—saw her start—saw her hesitate, and then saw her impulsively throw out her arms to him. He felt a lump in his throat as, with his whole heart in the action, he in his turn reached towards her.



CHAPTER X

Strange Fishing

Yes, her arms were extended towards him. The fact made the world swim before his eyes. Then he thought of Sorez and—it was well Sorez was not within reach of him. Slowly the barrier widened between Wilson and his Comrade—slowly she faded from sight, even while his eyes strained to hold the last glimpse of her. It seemed as though the big ship were dragging the heart out of him. On it went, slowly, majestically, inevitably, tugging, straining until it was difficult for him to catch his breath. She was taking away not only her own sweet self, but the joy and life from everything about him; the color from the sky, the gold from the sunbeams, the savor from the breezes. To others the sky was blue, the sun warm, and the salt-laden winds came in from over the sea with pungent keenness. To others the waters were sprinkled with joyous colors—the white sails of yachts, the weather-beaten sails of the fishermen, and the gaudy funnels of the liners. But to him it was all gray, gray—a dull, sodden gray.

He felt a tug at his sleeve and heard the gruff voice of the cabby.

"What about my fare?"

"Your fare?"

He had forgotten. He reached in his pocket and drew out a roll of bills, thrusting them into the grimy hands of the man without looking at them.

"Now get out," he ordered.

Wilson watched the fading hulk until it was lost in the tangle of other shipping. Then he tried to hold the line of black smoke which it left in its wake. When that finally blended with the smoke from other funnels which misted into the under surface of the blue sky, he turned about and stared wearily at the jumble of buildings which marked the city that was left. The few who had come on a like mission dispersed,—sucked into the city channels to their destinations as nickel cash boxes in a department store are flashed to their goals. Wilson found himself almost alone on the pier. There was but one other who, like himself, seemed to find no interest left behind by the steamer. Wilson merely glanced at him, but soon looked back, his interest excited by something or other in the man's appearance. He was no ordinary looking man—a certain heavy, brooding air relieved of moroseness by twinkling black eyes marked him as a man with a personality. He was short and thick set, with shaggy, iron-gray eyebrows, a smooth-shaven face speckled on one side as by a powder scar. Beneath a thin-lipped mouth a stubborn chin protruded. He was dressed in a flannel shirt and corduroy trousers, fastened by a black belt. He had the self-sufficient air of the sailor or miner, which is developed by living a great deal apart from other men. It seemed to Wilson that the man was watching him, too, with considerable interest. Every now and then he removed the short clay pipe which he was smoking and covered a half circle with his eyes which invariably included Wilson. Finally he lounged nearer and a few minutes later asked for a match.

Wilson, who was not much given to forming chance acquaintanceships, was at first inclined to be suspicious, and yet it was he who made the next advance, prompted, however, by his eagerness for information.

"Do you know anything about sailing lines to South America?" he asked.

The older man removed his pipe. Wilson thought he looked a bit startled—a bit suspicious at the question.

"What port?" he asked.

It occurred to Wilson that it might be just as well not to divulge his real destination. The only other South American port he could think of was Rio Janeiro, on the east coast.

"How about to Rio?"

"Hell of a hole—Rio," observed the stranger, with a sad shake of his head. "But fer that matter so's everywhere. Never found a place what wasn't. This is," he affirmed, sweeping his pipe in a semicircle.

"You're right there," agreed Wilson, the blue sky above clouding before his eyes.

"I've heern there's goneter be an earthquake here some day. Swaller up the whole darned place. Guess it's so."

Wilson studied the man once more; he began to think the fellow was a trifle light-headed. But he decided not; he was probably only one of those with so strong an individuality as to be thought queer. The stranger was staring out to sea again as though, in the trend of fresh speculations, he had lost all interest in the conversation. However, in a minute he withdrew his pipe from his mouth, and, without turning his head, asked,

"Was you reckoning as a passenger or was yer lookin' for a chance to ship?"

That was a proposition Wilson had not considered. It had no more occurred to him that a man untrained could secure work on a ship than on a railroad.

"Think it is possible for me to get a job?" he asked. "I've not had any experience."

"There's some things yer don't need experience fer."

"I'm willing to do anything—from peeling potatoes to scrubbing decks."

"There's better nor that fer a man."

"I'd like to find it."

The stranger studied the younger man from the corner of his eyes, pressing down the live coals in his pipe with a calloused forefinger.

"If you was only goin' to the West Coast, now."

"What? Where?"

"Say pretty far up—Say to Carlina?"

Wilson could scarcely believe his ears. He steadied himself. This must be more than mere coincidence, he thought. For all he knew, this man might be some agent of the priest. Perhaps the latter had some inkling of what had been found. But if that were so, there was little doubt but what the priest would have taken up the search for it himself. At any rate, Wilson felt well able to care for himself. The parchment was safe in an inside pocket which he had fastened at the top with safety pins. The advantage in having it there was that he could feel it with a slight pressure of his arm. If an opportunity offered to get to Carlina, he would accept it at whatever risk. Wilson answered slowly after the manner of one willing to consider an offer but eager to make a good bargain.

"I don't know but what Carlina would suit me as well as Rio. It's more to get away from here than anything."

"You has the right spirit, m' boy."

He paused, then added indifferently,

"Dunno but what I can find a berth fer you. Come if ye wanter, an' we'll talk it over."

Wilson followed. This at least offered possibilities. The stranger lolled the length of the dock shed and out into the street as unconcernedly as though only upon a stroll. They turned into the main thoroughfare among the drays and ship-chandlers' shops, out into the busy, unconcerned life of the city. The stranger was as unconscious of the confusion about him as though he were the only occupant of the street, crossing in front of the heavy teams with a nonchalance that forced frantic drivers to draw their horses to their haunches, and motormen to bend double over their brakes. Oaths and warnings apparently never reached him. Once Wilson clutched at his broad shoulders to save him from a motor car. He merely spat at the rear wheels.

"Couldn't git killed if I wanted to," he grumbled.

They brought up finally before a barroom and entered, passing through to the small iron tables in the rear. The dim gas revealed smudged walls ornamented with dusty English sporting prints—a cock fight, a fist fight, and a coach and four done in colors. A dwarf of a waiter swabbed off the wet disks made by beer glasses.

"Two half and halfs," ordered the stranger.

When they were brought, he shoved one towards Wilson.

"Drink," he said. "Might's well."

Wilson gulped down the bitter beer. It cleared his head and gave him new life. The stranger ordered another.

"Can't talk to a man when he's thirsty," he observed.

The room grew hazily warm, and Wilson felt himself glowing with new life and fresh courage.

"My name is Stubbs—Jonathan Stubbs," explained the stranger, as Wilson put down the empty mug. "Follered the sea for forty year. Rotten hard work—rotten bad grub—rotten poor pay. Same on land as on sea, I reckon. No good anywhere. Got a friend who's a longshoreman and says th' same 'bout his work. No good anywhere."

He paused as though waiting for the other to introduce himself.

"My name is Wilson, haven't done much of anything—and that's rotten poor fun. But I want to get to South America and I'll do anything under the sun that will pay my way there."

"Anything?"

"Yes," laughed Wilson, "anything, to heaving coal."

"'Fraid of your neck?" asked Stubbs.

"Try me."

"Gut any family?"

"No."

"Ever shipped afore?"

"No."

Stubbs settled further back in his chair and studied the ceiling.

"Wotcher want to git there for?"

"I have a friend who's somewhere down there," he said frankly.

"Man?"

"No."

"Women," mused Stubbs, "is strange. Can't never lay your hand on a woman. Here they are an' here they ain't. I had a woman once't. Yes, I had a woman once't."

He relapsed into a long silence and Wilson studied him with friendlier interest than before. Life was written large upon his wrinkled face, but the eyes beneath the heavy brows redeemed many of the bitter lines. It was clear that the man had lived much within himself in spite of his long rubbing against the world. He was a man, Wilson thought, who could warn men off, or welcome them in, at will.

"Maybe," he resumed, "maybe you'll come an' maybe you won't. Come if you wanter."

"Where to?"

"To Choco Bay. Can't promise you nothin' but a berth to the port,—good pay an' a damned rough time after you get there. Maybe your throat cut in the end."

"I'll go," said Wilson, instantly.

The gray eyes brightened.

"Now I ain't promised you nothin', have I, but to git you to the coast?"

"No."

"Hain't said nothin', have I, 'bout what may happen to you after you git there?"

"Only that I may get my throat cut."

"What's the difference if you do? But if you wants to, I'll gamble my chest agin a chaw that you won't. Nothin' ever comes out right."

"But I don't want to. I most particularly object to getting my throat cut."

"Then," said Stubbs, "maybe you will. Where's your kit?"

"On my back."

"You'll need more than that. Come on."

Stubbs led the way to a second-hand store and bought for his new-found friend a flannel shirt, trousers like his own, a pair of stout boots, and a cap.

Wilson had nothing left of his ten dollars.

"All the same," said Stubbs. "Settle when you git your pay."

He led him then to a pawn shop where he picked out a thirty-two calibre revolver and several boxes of cartridges. Also a thick-bladed claspknife.

"See here, Stubbs," objected Wilson, "I don't need those things. I'm not going pirating, am I?"

"Maybe so. Maybe only missionaryin'. But a gun's a useful ornyment in either case."

He drew out a heavy silver watch and with his forefinger marking off each hour, computed how much time was left to him.

"What d' ye say," he broke out, looking up at Wilson, "what d' ye say to goin' fishin', seein' as we've gut a couple of hours on our hands?"

"Fishing?" gasped Wilson.

"Fishin'," answered the other, calmly. "I know a feller down by the wharf who'll take us cheap. Might's well fish as anything else. Prob'ly won't git none. Never do. I'll jus' drop in below here and git some bait an' things."

A dozen blocks or so below, he left Wilson on the sidewalk and vanished into a store whose windows were cluttered with ship's junk. Anchor-chains, tarpaulin, marlinspikes, ropes, and odd bits of iron were scattered in a confusion of fish nets. Stubbs emerged with a black leather bag so heavy that he was forced to ask Wilson to help him lift it to his shoulders.

"Going to fish with cast-iron worms?" asked Wilson.

"Maybe so. Maybe so."

He carried the bag lightly once it was in place and forged a path straight ahead with the same indifference to pedestrians he had shown towards teams, apparently deaf to the angry protestations of those who unwisely tried their weight against the heavy bag. Suddenly he turned to the right and clambered down a flight of stairs to a float where a man was bending over a large dory.

"Engaged for to-day?" he demanded of the young fellow who was occupied in bailing out the craft. The man glanced up at Stubbs and then turned his attention to Wilson.

"My friend," went on Stubbs, "I want to get a little fishin' 'fore dark. Will you 'commodate me?"

"Get in, then," growled the owner.

He helped Stubbs lower the bag into the stern, with the question,

"Any more to your party?"

"This is all," answered Stubbs.

In five minutes Wilson found himself in the prow being rowed out among the very shipping at which a few hours before he had stared with such resentment. What a jackstraw world this had proved itself to him in this last week! It seemed that on the whole he had had very little to do with his own life, that he was being juggled by some unknown hand. And yet he seemed, too, to be moving definitely towards some unknown goal. And this ultimate towards which his life was trending was inseparably bound up with that of the girl. His heart gave a bound as they swung out into the channel. He felt himself to be close on the heels of Jo. It mattered little what lay in between. The incidents of life counted for nothing so long as they helped him to move step by step to her side. He had come to his own again,—come into the knowledge of the strength within him, into the swift current of youth. He realized that it was the privilege of youth to meet life as it came and force it to obey the impulses of the heart. He felt as though the city behind him had laid upon him the oppressive weight of its hand and that now he had shaken it free.

The color came back once more into the world.



CHAPTER XI

What was Caught

The man at the oars rowed steadily and in silence with an easy swing of his broad shoulders. He wormed his way in and out of the shipping filling the harbor with the same instinct with which a pedestrian works through a crowd. He slid before ferry boats, gilded under the sterns of schooners, and missed busy launches by a yard, never pausing in his stroke, never looking over his shoulder, never speaking. They proceeded in this way some three miles until they were out of the harbor proper and opposite a small, sandy island. Here the oarsman paused and waited for further orders. Stubbs glanced at his big silver watch and thought a moment. It was still a good three hours before dark. Beyond the island a fair-sized yacht lay at anchor. Stubbs took from his bag a pair of field glasses and leveled them upon this ship. Wilson followed his gaze and detected a fluttering of tiny flags moving zigzag upon the deck. After watching these a moment Stubbs, with feigned indifference, turned his glasses to the right and then swung them in a semicircle about the harbor, and finally towards the wharf they had left. He then carefully replaced the glasses in their case, tucked them away in the black bag, and, after relighting his pipe, said,

"What's the use er fishin'?" He added gloomily, "Never catch nothin'."

He glanced at the water, then at the sky, then at the sandy beach which lay just to port.

"Let's go ashore and think it over," he suggested.

The oarsman swung into action again as silently and evenly as though Stubbs had pressed an electric button.

In a few minutes the bow scraped upon the sand, and in another Stubbs had leaped out with his bag. Wilson clambered after. Then to his amazement, the latter saw the oarsman calmly shove off and turn the boat's prow back to the wharf. He shot a glance at Stubbs and saw that the latter had seen the move, and had said nothing. For the first time he began to wonder in earnest just what sort of a mission they were on.

Stubbs stamped his cramped legs, gave a hitch to his belt, and filled his clay pipe, taking a long time to scrape out the bowl, whittle off a palmful of tobacco, roll it, and stuff it into the bowl with a care which did not spill a speck of it. When it was fairly burning, he swept the island with his keen eyes and suggested that they take a walk.

The two made a circle of the barren acres which made up the island and returned to their starting point with scarcely a word having been spoken. Stubbs picked out a bit of log facing the ship and sat down. He waved his hand towards the yacht.

"That," he said, "is the craft that'll take us there—if it don't go down."

"Why don't we go aboard, then?" ventured Wilson.

"'Cause why? 'Cause we're goneter wait fer the other fishermen."

"I hope they have found as comfortable a fishing-ground as we have."

He studied Stubbs a moment and then asked abruptly,

"What's the meaning of this fishing story?"

Stubbs turned upon him with a face as blank as the cloudless sky above.

"If I was goneter give a bright young man advice 'bout this very trip," he answered slowly, "it would be not to ask any questions."

"I don't consider it very inquisitive to want to know what I'm shipping on," he returned with some heat.

"Ye said ye wanted t' git somewhere near Carlina, didn't ye?"

"Yes."

"An' ye said ye didn't care how you gut there so long's ye gut there."

"Yes," admitted Wilson.

"Well—ye're on yer way to Carlina now. An' if we ain't blown t' hell, as likely 'nuff we will be, an' if we don't all git our bloomin' throats cut like I dreamed 'bout, er if the ship ain't scuttled as we'll have a precious crew who 'u'd do it in a second, we'll git there."

He paused as though expecting some reply, but already Wilson had lost interest in his query before other speculations of warmer interest.

"In the meanwhile," ran on Stubbs, "'tain't bad right here. Shouldn't wonder though but what we gut an old hellion of a thunder shower 'fore long."

"How do you figure that out without a cloud in the sky?"

"Don't figure it out. Don't ever figure nothin' out, 'cause nothin' ever comes out right. Only sech things is jus' my luck."

He puffed a moment at his pipe, and then, removing it, turned to the young man beside him with a renewed interest which seemed to be the result of his meditation.

"See here, m' boy, I'm thinkin' that if you and I c'uld sorter pull together on this trip it 'u'd be a good thing fer us both. I reckon I'll need a man or two at my side what I can depend upon, and maybe you'll find one come in handy, too. Ye'll find me square, but damned unlucky. As fer you, it's clear to see you're square 'nuff. I like a man at the start or I don't like him ever. I like you, an' if it's agreeable we can strike articles of 'greement to pull together, as you might say."

Wilson listened in some surprise at this unexpected turn in the attitude of his friend, but he could not doubt the man's sincerity. He extended his hand at once, responding heartily,

"I'm with you. We ought to be able to help."

"You've gotter work a little longer in the dark, m' boy, 'cause it isn't for me to tell another man's business. But I've looked inter this and so far's I can see it is all right and above board. It's onusual an' I'm not bankin' much on how it'll come out, but we don't have to worry none over that. Ye'll have a captain whose got more heart than head maybe, which is diff'rent from most captains who useter sail down here."

"I'm willing to take what comes."

"It's the only way. Wrastle it out each day and, win er lose, forgit it in yer sleep. We all reaches the same port in the end."

The sun beat down warmly on the two men, the blue waves danced merrily before their eyes, and just beyond the good ship rode at anchor, rising and falling rhythmically. Already the city seemed hundreds of miles behind to Wilson, although he had only to turn his head to see it. Whether it was the salt, sea air or the smack of many lands which clung to the man at his side, he felt himself in another world, a world of broader, looser laws.

"In about an hour," drawled Stubbs, "the others will be here. There'll be all kinds, I expect; some of 'em sober, some of 'em drunk; some of 'em cool, some of 'em scared; some of 'em willing, some of 'em balky. But all of 'em has gotter git aboard that vessel. An' you and me has gotter do it."

"How many?"

"Maybe fifty; maybe more."

"Pretty good handful."

"It would be if we didn't start first. So it's jus' as well—not that we're lookin' fer trouble or even expectin' it, as you may say, but jus' to nip trouble in the bud, as the sayin' is,—to look at our weapins."

He drew out his own heavy Colt's revolver, removed the cartridges, tested the hammer, and refilled the chambers. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Wilson to see that he was equally careful. The latter could not help but smile a little. He felt more as though he were on the stage than in real life. To be preparing for as much trouble as though in some uncivilized country, while still within sight of the office buildings of a modern city, seemed an absurdity. Yet here he was, in his sober senses, and at his side sat Stubbs, and, behind, the big chimneys belched smoke, while he thrust one cartridge after another into the bright cylinder of his weapon. But when he looked again at the ocean which lay before him an unbroken plain extending to the shores of other continents, his act and his situation seemed more natural. He was preparing for the things before him, not the life behind. The waters breaking at their feet were brothers to those many thousands of miles distant.

The sun sank lower and lower towards the blue horizon line, finally spattering the sky with color as it sank into the sea as though it had splashed into a pot of molten gold. Behind them the whistles screamed that work might cease. In front, where there were no roads or paths to cut the blue, the only surface whereon man has not been able to leave his mark since the first created day, a deep peace came down. The world became almost a dream world, so hushed and vague it grew. The yacht which still rocked at anchor grew as dim as a ghost ship. The purple of the sky deepened and the stars came out.

"Look at her now," drawled Stubbs, with a sweep of his hand towards the waters, "like an infant in arms, but afore mornin' reachin' for yer throat, maybe. Next to wimen I don't s'pose there's anythin' so uncertain and contrary, as you may say."

He raised his field glasses and studied the ship again which lay without lights, like a derelict. He rose lazily and stretched himself.

The light glow in the west disappeared and left the earth but scantily lighted by a new moon. The surface of the water was dark, so that from the shore a rowboat could not be seen for a distance of more than fifty yards. Stubbs strolled towards the place where they had landed and took from his black bag a small lantern which he lighted and, after some searching, placed upon a small, flat rock which he discovered.

"Guess that will fetch 'em 'fore long," he said.

But it was all of half an hour before the first boat came stealing out of the dark like a floating log. At sight of it Stubbs became a different man. He rose to his feet with the quick movement of a boy. His eyes took in every detail of the contents of the boat before it touched the shore. He was as alert as a watchdog. He turned to Wilson before he started towards this first cargo.

"'Member," he warned,—"jus' one thing to do,—git 'em aboard the ship yonder. If they git scared and balky, tell 'em they gut ter go now. Hol' yerself steady and talk sharp."

The boat, a large fishing dory, scraped the sand. It appeared loaded to the gunwales with the men and their kits. It had scarcely grounded before there was a scramble among the occupants and a fight to get ashore.

But once they had secured their traps, they gathered into a surly group and swore their discontent at the whole expedition. Into the midst of this Stubbs stamped and under pretence of gruff greeting to this one and that, together with much elbowing, broke the circle up into three parts. A dozen questions were shot at him, but he answered them with an assumption of authority that had a wholesome effect. In another minute he had picked out three of the most aggressive men and stationed them at different points on the island to look out for the other boats.

They came rapidly, and within half an hour the list was complete.

Wilson found that he was in about as tough a company as ever stepped out of a pirate story. They had evidently all been chosen with a regard for their physique, for they were all powerfully built men, ranging in age from twenty to forty. Most of them were only loafers about the wharves. There was not a seafaring man among them, for reasons which later were obvious enough to Wilson. It was clear that few of them were pleased with the first stage of their expedition, but they were forced to take it out in swearing. They swore at the dark, at the cold sea air, at the sand, at their luck, and, below their breath, at Stubbs, who had got them here. Two of them were drunk and sang maudlin songs in each other's arms. But out of the grumbling babel of voices one question predominated.

"Wha' th' hell does this mean?"

Stubbs with a paper in his hand checked off the contents of each boat as it arrived, strode into the heart of every group as it got too noisy, turned aside all questions with an oath or a laugh, and in ten minutes had convinced every man that for the present they were under the whip hand of a master. They quieted down after this and, slouching into the sand, lighted their pipes and waited. Wilson was stationed to overlook the empty boats and see that no one but the oarsmen departed in them.

He took his post with a nonchalance that surprised himself. It was as though he had been accustomed to such incidents all his life. When one of the bullies swaggered down and said with an oath that he'd be damned if he'd have any more of it and lifted one foot into a boat, Wilson touched him lightly upon the shoulder and ordered him back.

The man turned and squared his shoulders for a blow. But the hand upon his shoulder remained, and even in the dusk he saw that the eyes continued unflinchingly upon him.

"Get back," said Wilson, quietly.

The man turned, and without a word slunk to his place among his fellows. Wilson watched him as curiously as though he had been merely a bystander. And yet when he realized that the man had done his bidding, had done it because he feared to do otherwise, he felt a tingling sense of some new power. It was a feeling of physical individuality—a consciousness of manhood in the arms and legs and back. To him man had until now been purely a creature of the intellect gauged by his brain capacity. Here where the arm counted he found himself taking possession of some fresh nature within him.

"Take the lantern," shouted Stubbs; "go to where we sat and wave it three times, slow like, back and forth."

Wilson obeyed. Almost instantly he saw a launch steal from the ship's side and make directly for the island.

"Now, men," commanded Stubbs, "take your kits, get into fours and march to the left."

With a shove here, a warning there, he moulded the scattered groups into a fairly orderly line. Then he directed them by twos into the small boat from the launch, which had come as far inshore as possible. Wilson stood opposite and kept the line intact. There was no trouble. The launch made two trips, and on the last Stubbs and Wilson clambered in, leaving the island as deserted as the ocean in their wake. Stubbs wiped his forehead with a red bandanna handkerchief and lighted up his short clay pipe with a sigh of relief.

"So far, so good," he said. "The only thing you can bank on is what's over with. There's several of them gents I should hate to meet on a dark night, an' the same will bear steady watchin' on this trip."

He squatted in the stern, calmly facing the clouded faces with the air of a laborer who has completed a good day's work. As they came alongside the ship he instructed each man how to mount the swaying rope ladder and watched them solicitously until they clambered over the side.

Most of them took this as an added insult and swore roundly at it as an imposition.

Wilson himself found it no easy task to reach the deck, but Stubbs came up the ladder as nimbly as a cat. The ship was unlighted from bow to stern, so that the men aboard her moved about like shadows. Wilson was rescued from the hold by Stubbs, who drew him back just as he was being shoved towards the hatch by one of the sailors. The next second he found himself facing a well-built shadow, who greeted Stubbs with marked satisfaction.

"By the Lord," exclaimed the man, "you've done well, Stubbs. How many did you get in all?"

"Fifty—to a man."

"They looked husky in the dark."

"Yes, they've gut beef 'nuff—but that ain't all that makes a man. Howsomever, they're as good as I expected."

Wilson gasped; the master of this strange craft was no other than Danbury!



CHAPTER XII

Of Love and Queens

For a few minutes Wilson kept in the background. He saw that the young man was in command and apparently knew what he was about, for one order followed another, succeeded by a quick movement of silent figures about the decks, a jingle of bells below, and soon the metallic clank of the steam-driven windlass. Shortly after this he felt the pulse beat of the engines below, and then saw the ship, as gently as a maid picking her way across a muddy street, move slowly ahead into the dark.

"Now," said Danbury to Stubbs, "hold your breath. If we can only slide by the lynx-eyed quarantine officers, we'll have a straight road ahead of us for a while."

"Maybe we'll do it; maybe we won't."

"You damned pessimist," laughed Danbury. "Once we're out of this harbor I'll give you a feed that will make an optimist of you."

The black smoke, sprinkled with golden red sparks from the forced draft, belched from the funnel tops. The ship slid by the green and red lights of other craft with never a light of her own. The three men stood there until the last beacon was passed and the boat was pointed for the open.

"Done!" exclaimed Danbury. "Now we'll have our lights and sail like men. Hanged if I like that trick of muffled lights; but it would be too long a delay to be held up here until morning."

He spoke a moment to his mate, and then turned to Stubbs.

"Now," he said, "come on and I'll make you glad you're living."

"Just a moment, Cap'n—my mate Wilson."

Danbury turned sharply. In the light which now flooded up from below, he saw Wilson's features quite clearly, but for a moment he could not believe his eyes.

"What the devil——" he began, then broke in abruptly, "Are you the same one—the fellow in the Oriental robe and bandaged head?"

"The same," answered Wilson.

"The one I took from the crowd and brought home?"

"And clothed and loaned ten dollars, for which he is more thankful than ever."

"But—did you get the girl?"

"Not yet," answered Wilson. "I'm still after her."

"Well,—but say, come on down."

Danbury led the way into a small cabin so brilliant with the reflection of the electric lights against the spotless white woodwork that it was almost blinding. But it was a welcome change from the dark and the cool night air and the discomfort of the last few hours. To Wilson it was almost like a feat of magic to have been shifted in an hour from the barren sands of the tiny island to such luxury as this. It took but the first glance to perceive that this young captain had not been limited in resources in the furnishing of his ship. Within the small compass of a stateroom he had compressed comfort and luxury. Yet there was no ostentation or vulgarity displayed. The owner had been guided by the one desire for decent ease and a certain regard for the eye. The left side of the room was occupied by the two bunks made up with the immaculate neatness characterizing all things aboard a good ship. The center of the room, was now filled with a folding table set with an array of silver, fine linen, and exquisite glass which would have done credit to the best board in New York. Beneath the group of electric lights it fairly sparkled and glistened as though it were ablaze. The wall to the right was adorned with a steel engraving of a thoroughbred bull pup.

"Now," said Danbury, throwing himself into a chair, "I'd like to know how in thunder Stubbs got you."

"He didn't—I got Stubbs."

"But where——"

"On the pier," broke in Stubbs, "where I had gone with the note to your pal—an' may I drop dead if he don't give me the creeps. There I finds this gent—an' I takes 'em where I finds 'em."

"You got the note to Valverde all right?"

"I got the note to your long-legged friend, but—it's his eyes, man! It's his eyes! They ain't human! I seen a man like him once what went mad from the heat an'—" he lowered his voice, "they found him at his mate's throat a-sucking of his blood!"

"Don't!" exploded Danbury. "No more of your ghastly yarns! Val is going to be useful to me or—I'm darned if I could stand him. I don't like him after dark."

"They shines in the dark like a cat's—them eyes does."

"Drop it, Stubbs! Drop it! I want to forget him for a while. That isn't telling me how you chanced——"

"That's just it," interrupted Wilson. "It was chance. I was looking for an opportunity to get to Carlina, and by inspiration was led to ask Stubbs. He made the proposition that I come with him, and I came. I had no more idea of seeing you than my great-grandfather. I was going back to thank you, but one thing has followed another so swiftly that I hadn't the time."

"I know, I know. But if you really want to thank me, you must tell me all about it some day. If things hadn't been coming so fast my own way I should have lain awake nights guessing about you. If I could have picked out one man I wanted on this trip with me I'd have taken a chance on you. The way you stood off that crowd made a hit with me. I don't know what sort of a deal you've made with Stubbs, but I'll make one of my own with you after dinner. Now about the others. No shanghaiing, was there, Stubbs? Every man knows where he's going and what he's hired for?"

"They will afore they're through."

Danbury's face darkened.

"I'm afraid you've been overzealous. I won't have a man on board against his will, if I have to sail back to port with him. But once he's decided for himself,—I'll be damned if he turns yellow safely."

"Ye've gotter remember," said Stubbs, "that they're a pack er liars, every mother's son of 'em. Maybe they'll say they was shanghaied; maybe they won't. But I've got fifty papers to show they're liars 'cause they've put their names to th' bottom of every paper."