The work is nearly done. The little soldier is yet to reckon with; but
we are three; and Zmai did quite well with the potato sack."

Chauvenet rode ahead and addressed a few words to Zmai.

"The little man must be found before we finish. There must be no mistake
about it."

They exercised greater caution as they drew nearer the wood that
concealed the bungalow, and Chauvenet dismounted, opened the gate and set
a stone against it to insure a ready egress; then they walked their
horses up the driveway.

Admonished by Chauvenet, Durand threw away his cigarette with a sigh.

"You are convinced this is the wise course, dearest Jules?"

"Be quiet and keep your eyes open. There's the house."

He halted the party, dismounted and crept forward to the bungalow. He
circled the veranda, found the blinds open, and peered into the long
lounging-room, where a few embers smoldered in the broad fireplace, and
an oil lamp shed a faint light. One man they held captive; the other was
not in sight; Chauvenet's courage rose at the prospect of easy victory.
He tried the door, found it unfastened, and with his revolver ready in
his hand, threw it open. Then he walked slowly toward the table, turned
the wick of the lamp high, and surveyed the room carefully. The doors of
the rooms that opened from the apartment stood ajar; he followed the wall
cautiously, kicked them open, peered into the room where Armitage's
things were scattered about, and found his iron bed empty. Then he walked
quickly to the veranda and summoned the others.

"Bring him in!" he said, without taking his eyes from the room.

A moment later Zmai had lifted the silent rider to the veranda, and flung
him across the threshold. Durand, now aroused, fastened the horses to the
veranda rail.

Chauvenet caught up some candles from the mantel and lighted them.

"Open the trunks in those rooms and be quick; I will join you in a
moment;" and as Durand turned into Armitage's room, Chauvenet peered
again into the other chambers, called once or twice in a low tone; then
turned to Zmai and the prisoner.

"Take off the bag," he commanded.

Chauvenet studied the lines of the erect, silent figure as Zmai loosened
the strap, drew off the bag, and stepped back toward the table on which
he had laid his revolver for easier access.

"Mr. John Armitage--"

Chauvenet, his revolver half raised, had begun an ironical speech, but
the words died on his lips. The man who stood blinking fr