jungle, where undergrowth and vine run riot, where orchid and
airplant and wondrous-hued flowers blaze through the green
gloom of interlaced foliage.

This, roughly, is a bird's-eye glimpse of the southeastern
stretch of Florida, a region of glory and glow and fortunes
and mystery. (Which is perhaps a momentary digression from
our story, but will serve. for all that to fix its setting
more vividly in the eyes of the mind.)


When Milo Standish came back from Miami that noon he professed
much loud-voiced joy at seeing his guest so well recovered
from the night's mishaps. At lunch. he suggested:

"I am running across to Roustabout Key this afternoon. in the
launch. It's an island I bought a few years ago. I keep a
handful of men there to work a grapefruit grove and a mango
orchard and some other stuff I've planted. I go over to it
every week or so. Would you care to come along?"

He spoke with elaborate carelessness, and looked anywhere
except at his guest. Gavin, not appearing to note the
concealed nervousness of his host's voice and manner, gave
eager consent. And at two o'clock they set forth.

They drove in Milo's car a half-mile or more to southwestward
along the road which fronted the house. Then turning into a
sand byway which ran crookedly at right angles to it and which
skirted the southern end of the mangrove-swamp, they headed