three days, was a shimmering stretch of placid blue water, and the
shattered spars and loose cordage of _The Waif_ were the only reminders
of the terrific storm that had swept us before it.

Captain Newmarch set all hands at work to repair the damage, and before
midday we were bowling along under as much canvas as we could spread.
The storm being directly from the southwest had not carried us from our
course, and Newmarch chuckled when he had taken an observation.

"We'll strike it in the morning," he growled.

"What? Penrose Island?" I asked.

"No, the Isle of Tears," he answered sharply.

"The Isle of Tears?" I repeated.

"That's what I said," he remarked sourly. "And now you know as much as I
know. It was kept a little secret by the orders of my employers, but we
are so close to the spot now that I don't think it will matter if I let
the cat out of the bag."

"And is it there that the Professor will conduct his search?" I asked.

"You had better ask that question of Professor Herndon," he replied. "I
know nothing about what they'll do ashore."

He left the poop before I had time to put another question to him, and
as I walked up and down I turned over in my mind the tiny morsel of
information I had received. The captain's secrecy was peculiar, to say