Suddenly I turned to Cuthbert Vane.

"How do you know, really, that he ever did leave the island?" I
demanded.

"Who--the copra chap? Well, why else was the cabin cleared out so
carefully--no clothes left about or anything?"

"That's true," I acknowledged. The last occupant of the hut had
evidently made a very deliberate and orderly business of packing up
to go.

We drifted about the cove for a while, then steered into the dim
murmuring shadow of the treasure-cavern. It was filled with
dark-green, lisping water, and a continual resonant whispering in
which you seemed to catch half-framed words, and the low ripple of
laughter. Mr. Vane indicated the point at which they had arrived
in their exploration among the fissures opening from the ledge.

The place held me with its fascination, but we dared not linger
long, for as the tide turned one man would have much ado to manage
the boat. So we slid through the archway into the bright sunshine
of the cove, and headed for the camp.

As we neared the beach we saw a figure pacing it. I knew that free
stride. It was Dugald Shaw. And quite unexpectedly my heart began
to beat with staccato quickness. Dugald Shaw, who didn't like me
and never looked at me--except just sometimes, when he was
perfectly sure I didn't know it. Dugald Shaw, the silent,