, though, don't you think?"

"I'm not saying," was the Scot's cautious answer. "Seems to be trying to
discourage us and egg us on at the same time. Something up his sleeve,
perhaps."

"Can't tell. But his line of talk rings true so far. Checks up all right
with what we've heard about the Mayorunas and so on. And that scheme of
working in through the Mayoruna country sounds about as sensible as
anything. Desperate chance and all that, but it might work. Say, why did
you kick me when I was going to tell him you'd been in British Guiana?"

"Don't know exactly. Had a hunch. Seems to me I've seen that fellow
before somewhere, but I can't place him. None of his business where I've
been, anyhow. We're boobs from the States hunting for a wild man. That's
all he needs to know."

But it was not enough for Schwandorf to know. At that very moment he was
on his way to the home of Superintendent Cabral, with whom he had no
engagement whatever, to learn all he could concerning the business of
these military-appearing strangers; also to impress on that official the
fact that he had sought to dissuade them from starting on their mad
quest.

And much later that night, when Knowlton was making good his boast that
he was a sound sleeper, a black-bearded face rose silently above the
iron partition between his room and that of the German. A hand gripping
a small electric flashlight followed. A white ray searched the room,
halting on the khaki shirt lying over a box. A tough withe with a barb
at one end came over like a slender tentacle, hooked the shirt neatly,
drew it stealthily up to the top. Shirt, stick, lamp, hand, face all
dissolved into darkness.

After a time they reappeared. The shirt came down, swung slowly back and
forth, was dropped deftly where it had previously lain. The breast
pocket holding the grain-leather notebook and the photograph of David
Dawson Rand was buttoned as it had been, and the notebook bulged the
cloth slightly as before. But the contents of that book and the pictured
face of Rand now were stamped on the brain of Schwandorf. A sneering,
snarling smile curled the heavy mouth of Schwandorf. And softly, so
softly that none could hear it but himself, sounded the ironical
benediction of Schwandorf:

"Sleep well, _offizier americanisch_! Dream on, poor fool! In time you
will wake up. _Ja_, you will wake up!"

CHAPTER V.

INTO THE BUSH

Sleepy eyed and frowzy haired, with shirt unbuttoned and bre