nor Stanleigh who presented herself,
coming upon me quite unexpectedly that night after our return while I
sat smoking in the shadowy garden of the Marine Hotel. I had dined with
the major, after he had explained that the ladies were worn out by the
heat and general developments of the day and had begged to be excused.
And I was frankly glad not to have to endure another discussion of the
deceased Farquharson, of which I was heartily tired after hearing little
else for the last three days. I could not help wondering how the verbose
and pompous major had paraphrased and condensed that inchoate mass of
biography and reminiscence into an orderly account for his wife and
niece. He had doubtless devoted the whole afternoon to it. Sitting under
the cool green of the lemon-trees, beneath a sky powdered with stars, I
reflected that I, at least, was done with Farquharson forever. But I was
not, for just then Eleanor Stanleigh appeared before me.

I was startled to hear her addressing me by name, and then calmly
begging me to resume my seat on the bench under the arbor. She sat down
also, her flame-colored hair and bare shoulders gleaming in the
darkness. She was the soul of directness and candor, and after a
thoughtful, searching look into my face she came to the point at once.
She wanted to hear about Farquharson--from me.

"Of course, my uncle has given me a very full account of what he learned
from Mr. Leavitt, and yet many things puzzle me--this Mr. Leavitt most
of all."

"A queer chap," I epitomized him. "Frankly, I don't quite make him out,
Miss Stanleigh--marooning himself on that infernal island and seemingly
content to spend his days there."

"Is he so old?" she caught me up quickly.

"No, he isn't," I reflected. "Of course, it's difficult to judge ages
out here. The climate, you know. Leavitt's well under forty, I should
say. But that's a most unhealthy spot he has chosen to live in."

"Why does he stay there?"

I explained about the volcano. "You can have no idea what an obsession
it is with him. There isn't a square foot of its steaming, treacherous
surface that he hasn't been over, mapping new fissures, poking into old
lava-beds, delving into the crater itself on favorable days----"

"Isn't it dangerous?"

"In a way, yes. The volcano itself is harmless enough. It smokes
unpleasantly now and then, splutters and rumbles as if about to
obliterate all creation, but for all its bluster it only manages to
spill