hand on his shoulder.

Mr. Chalk struggled to free himself. "Where is he?" He gasped.

Stobell, still holding him, stood trying to regain his breath. "They--
they must--have got him," he said, at last. "Have you got any of your
pistols on you?"

"You threw them all away," quavered Mr. Chalk. "I've only got a knife."

He fumbled with trembling fingers at his belt; Stobell brushing his hand
aside drew a sailor's knife from its sheath, and started to run back in
the direction of the tent. Mr. Chalk, after a moment's hesitation,
followed a little way behind.

"Look out!" he screamed, and stopped suddenly, as a figure burst out of
the trees on to the beach a score of yards ahead. Stobell, with a hoarse
cry, raised his hand and dashed at it.

"Stobell!" cried a voice.

"It's Tredgold," cried Stobell. He waited for him to reach them, and
then, turning, all three ran stumbling along the beach.

They ran in silence until they reached the other end of the island. So
far there were no signs of pursuit, and Stobell, breathing hard from his
unwonted exercise, collected a few lumps of coral and piled them on the
beach.

"They had me over--twice," said Tredgold, jerkily; "they tore the clothes