Tentatively, Brice drew aside an armful of branches, just
above the waiting dog. And, as though he had pulled back a
curtain, he found himself facing a well-defined path, cut
through the tangled thicket of root and trunk and bough--a
path that wound out of sight in the dark recesses of the
swamps.

Roots had been cleared away and patches of water filled with
them and with earth. Here and there a plank bridge spanned a
gap of deeper water. Altogether--so far as Brice could judge
in the fading light--the path was an excellent bit of rustic
engineering. And it was hidden as cunningly from casual eyes
as ever was a hermit thrush's nest.

Some one had been at much pains and at more expense, to lay
out and develop that secret trail. For it is no easy or cheap
task to build a sure path through such a swamp. From a
distance, forests of mangrove seemed to be massed on rising
ground, and to group themselves about the sides and the crests
of knolls. As a matter of fact, the presence of a mangrove
forest is a sign of the very lowest ground, ground covered for
the most part by salt tidewater. The lowest pine barren is
higher than the loftiest mangrove wilderness.

Gavin Brice's aspect of lassitude dropped from him like an
outworn garment. For hours--except during his brief encounter
with the beach comber--he had been steadily on the move, and
had covered a good bit of ground. Yet, any one, seeing him as
he traversed the miles from the Royal Palm Park at Miami,
would have supposed from his gait that he was on some aimless