ssed the terrible
anger of the Russian as he looked upon the dead face of the baby and
realized that at the last moment his dearest wish for vengeance had
been thwarted by a higher power.

Almost throwing the body of the child back into Jane Clayton's arms,
Rokoff stamped up and down the hut, pounding the air with his clenched
fists and cursing terribly. At last he halted in front of the young
woman, bringing his face down close to hers.

"You are laughing at me," he shrieked. "You think that you have beaten
me--eh? I'll show you, as I have shown the miserable ape you call
'husband,' what it means to interfere with the plans of Nikolas Rokoff.

"You have robbed me of the child. I cannot make him the son of a
cannibal chief, but"--and he paused as though to let the full meaning
of his threat sink deep--"I can make the mother the wife of a cannibal,
and that I shall do--after I have finished with her myself."

If he had thought to wring from Jane Clayton any sign of terror he
failed miserably. She was beyond that. Her brain and nerves were numb
to suffering and shock.

To his surprise a faint, almost happy smile touched her lips. She was
thinking with thankful heart that this poor little corpse was not that
of her own wee Jack, and that--best of all--Rokoff evidently did not
know the truth.

She would have liked to have flaunted the fact in his face, but she
dared not. If he continued to believe that the child had been hers, so
much safer would be the real Jack wherever he might be. She had, of
course, no knowledge of the whereabouts of her little son--she did not
know, even, that he still lived, and yet there was the chance that he
might.

It was more than possible that without Rokoff's knowledge this child
had been substituted for hers by one of the Russian's confederates, and
that even now her son might be safe with friends in London, where there
were many, both able and willing, to have paid any ransom which the
traitorous conspirator might have asked for the safe release of Lord
Greystoke's son.

She had thought it all out a hundred times since she had discovered
that the baby which Anderssen had placed in her arms that night upon
the Kincaid was not her own, and it had been a constant and gnawing
source of happiness to her to dream the whole fantasy through in its
every detail.

No, the Russian must never know that this was not her baby. She
realized that her position was hopeless--with Ander