have lain
unconscious on the sand of the shore while Nopp and his men fought the
fight for Edith's life. At least I was there when at last, after
lifetimes were done, a strong hand shook my shoulder. Van Hope and Nopp
were beside me, and they were smiling.

"A piece of news for you," Nopp told me, happily. "You put up a good
fight--and you'll be glad to know that your girl will live."

CHAPTER XXV

Though we were out of the water, we were not yet out of the woods. There
were many explanations to be made and many guesses that took the place
of explanations. No questions could be put to the butler, Florey, nor
Nealman, host of Kastle Krags, nor to Major Kenneth Dell. All of these
had been swept down the sink-hole and through the subterranean channel
into the sea.

Perhaps we would never have got anywhere, for a certainty, if it hadn't
been for the letter and the photograph that William Noyes sent me from
Vermont, and which arrived the day following our journey through the
passage. Short though it was, it served to clear up many matters to our
complete satisfaction. It was addressed to me:

I am sending photo of that scoundrel, George Florey, brother
of the dead man. I hope it helps you catch him. He always
hated his brother, and my late wife told me that as far back
as you want to go in her family you'll find one brother
hating another. I don't know where to tell you to look for
George. He and his brother both had spent most of their
lives looking for a chest of treasure that was hidden by
their grandfather down where you are--in Florida. They just
took this name of Florey the last generation. Before that it
was Hendrickson, my wife told me--and before that Heaven
knows what. Mostly they were a bad lot.

After I had read it I showed it to Nopp; and he breathed deeply. But he
made but one comment.

"Human nature is a winner, isn't it, Killdare?" he observed. "Will we
ever see the head and tail of it? Now let me see the picture."

Neither Nopp nor Edith nor any one who looked at it could mistake the
likeness presented in the photograph. It was not that of my suspect, Mr.
Pescini. One glance established that fact. The well-bred, rather
aristocratic face was none other than that of Major Kenneth Dell, he who
had got himself invited to Kastle Krags, and who had died in the trap
his grandfather had set nearly eighty years before.

Edith and I went over