had sighted in the distance two small native vessels, which did
not approach. The owner concluded by asking any commander of a
homeward-bound ship to report the yacht's position in Anjer on his way
through Sunda Straits--or to any British or Dutch man-of-war he might
meet. The letter ended by anticipatory thanks, the offer to pay any
expenses in connection with the sending of messages from Anjer, and the
usual polite expressions.

Folding the paper slowly in the old creases, Lingard said--"I am not
going to Anjer--nor anywhere near."

"Any place will do, I fancy," said Carter.

"Not the place where I am bound to," answered Lingard, opening the
letter again and glancing at it uneasily. "He does not describe very
well the coast, and his latitude is very uncertain," he went on. "I
am not clear in my mind where exactly you are stranded. And yet I know
every inch of that land--over there."

Carter cleared his throat and began to talk in his slow drawl. He seemed
to dole out facts, to disclose with sparing words the features of the
coast, but every word showed the minuteness of his observation, the
clear vision of a seaman able to master quickly the aspect of a strange
land and of a strange sea. He presented, with concise lucidity, the
picture of the tangle of reefs and sandbanks, through which the yacht
had miraculously blundered in the dark before she took the ground.

"The weather seems clear enough at sea," he observed, finally, and
stopped to drink a long draught. Lingard, bending over the table, had
been listening with eager attention. Carter went on in his curt and