dozen, or twenty, or thirty great flowers, all open; and there a cluster
snow-white--a crimson one beyond, darkening almost to purple. Dendrobium
Schroederianum was rediscovered!

Of Mitcholitz's emotion it is enough to tell that it drove all else from
his mind, or almost. When the interpreter summoned him he sat down and
hobnobbed with those murderers and ate their dubious viands. The triumph
was startling, so speedy and complete; but so much the heavier were his
responsibilities. When, with a chilling shock, he recalled distinctly the
dread spectacle, he said again:

'Let me attend to my business! _I_ can't help it!'

All went well. So soon as the chiefs understood that this eccentric white
man fancied their weeds, they joyously offered them--at a price. The time
of year was excellent--early in the dry season. Next day Micholitz
returned aboard and the Captain brought his ship round to the bay. But he
would not listen to the story. 'I told you they was rum chaps, didn't I?
Well, you see I told you true.' In three days, so plentiful was the
supply, Micholitz had gathered as many as he thought judicious, and heaped
them on deck. They could be dried while the vessel was waiting for cargo
elsewhere, and he longed to get away from that ill-omened spot.

Still luck attended him. The Captain 'filled up' quickly, and sailed, as
by agreement, for a Dutch port, where the orchids would be shipped for
England. He arrived in the evening, the ship lay alongside the wharf; next
day his precious cases would be transferred to the steamer. In great
content Micholitz went to sleep; so did everybody else, the watch
included. Towards morning the harbour police raised a cry of 'Fire!' It
must have been smouldering for hours. Not a plant could poor Micholitz
save!

On arrival, he had telegraphed his success, and joy reigned at St. Albans
all day. Foresight and enterprise were justly rewarded for once. What a
coup--what a sensation! Let us not speculate upon the language used when a
second dispatch came in the morning.

'Ship burnt! What do?--Micholitz.'

The reply was emphatic: 'Go back--Sander.'

'Too late--rainy season.'

'Go back!'

And Micholitz went. His protest, had he insisted upon it, was
unanswerable. Hard enough it would be to return among those anti-human
wretches when the delights of home had been so near. But there was no
chance of regaining the bay--a vessel might not sail thither for months or
years. The work mu