heard, but he
intended to tell him at once.

Captain Holt was in his private room, sitting at his desk, busy over
his monthly report. A swinging kerosene lamp hanging from the ceiling
threw a light full on his ruddy face framed in a fringe of gray
whiskers. Tod stepped in and closed the door behind him.

"I didn't go to the inlet, sir. Green had thought of the yawl and had
looked after it; he'll report to you about it. I just heard a strange
yarn from that fellow you sent with me and I want to tell ye what it
is."

The captain laid down his pen, pushed his glasses from his eyes, and
looked squarely into Tod's face.

"He's been askin' 'bout Miss Jane Cobden and Archie, and says your son
Bart is alive and sent him down here to find out how the land lay. It's
a cock-and-bull story, but I give it to you just as I got it."

Once in the South Seas the captain awoke to look into the muzzle of a
double-barrelled shot-gun held in the hand of the leader of a mutiny.
The next instant the man was on the floor, the captain's fingers
twisted in his throat.

Tod's eyes were now the barrels of that gun. No cat-like spring
followed; only a cold, stony stare, as if he were awaking from a
concussion that had knocked the breath out of him.

"He says Bart's ALIVE!" he gasped. "Who? That feller I sent with ye?"

"Yes."

The captain's face grew livid and then flamed up, every vein standing
clear, his eyes blazing.

"He's a liar! A dirty liar! Bring him in!" Each word hissed from his
lips like an explosive.

Tod opened the door of the sitting-room and the Swede stepped in. The
captain whirled his chair suddenly and faced him. Anger, doubt, and the
flicker of a faint hope were crossing his face with the movement of
heat lightning.

"You know my son, you say?"

"I do." The answer was direct and the tone positive.

"What's his name?"

"Barton Holt. He signs it different, but that's his name."

"How old is he?" The pitch of the captain's voice had altered. He
intended to riddle the man's statement with a cross-fire of examination.

"'Bout forty, maybe forty-five. He never told

"What kind of eyes?"

"Brown, like yours."

"What kind of hair?"

"Curly. It's gray now; he had fever, and it turned."

"Where--when?" Hope and fear were now struggling for the mastery.

"Two years ago--when I first knew him; we were in hospital together."

"What's he been doin'?" The tone was softer. Hope seemed to be stronger
now.

"Mini