ther and ply him with a hundred questions. Although he fell
in with their humor, and gradually pieced together the stirring story
which was supplemented each instant by the arrival of disconsolate
Dyaks and the comments of the men who returned from cave and beach, his
soul was filled with the sight of Iris and her father, and the happy,
inconsequent demands with which each sought to ascertain and relieve
the extent of the other's anxiety.

Then Iris called to him--

"Robert, I want you."

The use of his Christian name created something akin to a sensation.
Sir Arthur Deane was startled, even in his immeasurable delight at
finding his child uninjured--the picture of rude health and happiness.

Anstruther advanced.

"This is my father," she cried, shrill with joy. "And, father darling,
this is Captain Robert Anstruther, to whom alone, under God's will, I
owe my life, many, many times since the moment the _Sirdar_ was
lost."

It was no time for questioning. Sir Arthur Deane took off his hat and
held out his hand--

"Captain Anstruther," he said, "as I owe you my daughter's life, I owe
you that which I can never repay. And I owe you my own life, too, for I
could not have survived the knowledge that she was dead."

Robert took the proffered hand--

"I think, Sir Arthur, that, of the two, I am the more deeply indebted.
There are some privileges whose value cannot be measured, and among
them the privilege of restoring your daughter to your arms takes the
highest place."

Then, being much more self-possessed than the older man, who was
naturally in a state of agitation that was almost painful, he turned to
Iris.

"I think," he said, "that your father should take you on board the
_Orient_, Iris. There you may, perhaps, find some suitable
clothing, eat something, and recover from the exciting events of the
morning. Afterwards, you must bring Sir Arthur ashore again, and we
will guide him over the island. I am sure you will find much to tell
him meanwhile."

The baronet could not fail to note the manner in which these two
addressed each other, the fearless love which leaped from eye to eye,
the calm acceptance of a relationship not be questioned or gainsaid.
Robert and Iris, without spoken word on the subject, had tactily agreed
to avoid the slightest semblance of subterfuge as unworthy alike of
their achievements and their love. Yet what could Sir Arthur Deane do?
To frame a suitable protest at such a moment was