emaciated; his hair was white and hung in straggling masses on his
shoulders; his hooked nose bore apparently the infallible stamp of
extreme age. Yet there was a strange and uncanny strength and quickness
in his movements. There was no stoop to his shoulders. His head was set
squarely. His eyes were as keen as steel. It would have been impossible
to have told whether he was fifty or seventy. Eagerly he smoothed out
the abused missive and evidently succeeded even in the failing light, in
deciphering much of it, for the glimmer of a smile flashed over his thin
features as he thrust the paper into his pocket.

Without a moment's hesitation he set out on the trail of Captain Plum. A
quarter of a mile down the path he overtook the object of his pursuit.

"Ah, how do you do, sir?" he greeted as the younger man turned about
upon hearing his approach. "A mighty fast pace you're setting for an old
man, sir!" He broke into a laugh that was not altogether unpleasant, and
boldly held out a hand. "We've been expecting you, but--not in this way.
I hope there's nothing wrong?"

Captain Plum had accepted the proffered hand. Its coldness and the
singular appearance of the old man who had come like an apparition
chilled him. In a moment, however, it occurred to him that he was a
victim of mistaken identity. As far as he knew there was no one on
Beaver Island who was expecting him. To the best of his knowledge he was
a fool for being there. His crew aboard the sloop had agreed upon that
point with extreme vehemence and, to a man, had attempted to dissuade
him from the mad project upon which he was launching himself among the
Mormons in their island stronghold. All this came to him while the
little old man was looking up into his face, chuckling, and shaking his
hand as if he were one of the most important and most greatly to be