her reply, but the tone is enigmatical.

While this scene is on, another appears in Cheapside, London. A man
of bold and vigorous bearing comes from the office of a well-known
solicitor. That very morning he had had an interview with the King, and
had been reminded with more exactness than kindness that he had cost
King Charles a ship, scores of men, and thousands of pounds, in a
fruitless search for buried treasure in Hispaniola. When he had urged
his case upon the basis of fresh information, he was drily told that the
security was too scant, even for a king. He had then pleaded his case
to the Duke of Albemarle and other distinguished gentlemen. They were
seemingly convinced, but withheld their answer till the following
morning.

But William Phips, stubborn adventurer, destined to receive all sorts of
honours in his time, has no intention of quitting London till he has his
way; and this is his thought as he steps into Cheapside, having already
made preparations upon the chance of success. He has gone so far as
to purchase a ship, called the Bridgwater Merchant from an alderman
in London, though he has not a hundred guineas at his disposal. As he
stands debating, a hand touches his arm and a voice says in his ear:
"You were within a mile of it with the Atgier Rose, two years ago."

The great adventurer turns. "The devil I was! And who are you?"

Satanic humour plays in the stranger's eyes as he answers: "I am Edward
Bucklaw, pirate and keeper of the treasure-house in the La Planta
River."

"Blood of Judas," Phips says, "how dare you speak to me? I'll have you
in yon prison for an unhung rascal!"

"Ah! you are a great man," is the unmoved reply. "I knew you'd feel
that way. But if you'll listen for five minutes, down here at the
Bull-and-Daisy, there shall be peace between us."

An hour later, Phips, following Bucklaw's instructions, is tracing on a
map the true location of the lost galleon's treasure.

"Then," says Bucklaw, "we are comrades?"

"We are adventurers."

Another scene. In a northern inland sea two men are standing on the deck
of a ship: the one stalwart, clear-eyed, with a touch of strong reserve
in face and manner; the other of middle height, with sinister look. The
former is looking out silently upon the great locked hummocks of ice
surrounding the vessel. It is the early morning. The sun is shining with
that hard brightness only seen in the Arctic world--keen as silver, cold
as steel. It play