own the steep slope which the
stern of the vessel had hollowed in the sand, gripped with both hands
a rope which hung beside the rudder and in a few seconds, with the
assistance of his feet and knees, reached the stern rail.

Although the deck had listed violently to starboard and a sticky mud
was oozing through the planking, he ran to the spot where Isabel and
he had sat. The bench had been torn away, but the iron supports were
still standing and the rug which she had slung to one of them was
there, shrunk, heavy with the water dripping from it and packed, as
before the shipwreck, in its straps, which were untouched.

Simon thrust his hand between the wet folds of the rug, as he had seen
Isabel do. Not feeling anything, he tried to unfasten the straps, but
the leather had swollen and the ends were jammed in the buckles. Then
he took his knife, cut the straps and unrolled the rug. The miniature
in its pearl setting was gone.

In its place, fixed with a safety-pin, was a sheet of paper.

He unfolded it. On it were these hastily-written words, which Isabel
evidently intended for him:

"I was hoping to see you. Haven't you received my
letter? We have spent the night here--in an absolute
hell on earth! and we are just leaving. I am uneasy. I
feel that some one is prowling around us. Why are not
you here?"

"Oh!" Simon stammered, "it's incredible!"

He showed the note to Antonio, who had joined him, and at once added:

"Miss Bakefield! . . . She spent the night here . . . with her father
. . . and they have gone! But where? How are we to save them from so
many lurking dangers?"

The Indian read the letter and said, slowly:

"They have not gone back north. I should have seen their tracks."

"Then. . . . ?"

"Then. . . . I don't know."

"But this is awful! See, Antonio, think of all that is threatening
them . . . of Rolleston pursuing them! Think of this wild country,
swarming with highwaymen and foot-pads! . . . It's horrible,
horrible!"

PART THE SECOND

CHAPTER I

INSIDE THE WRECK

The expedition so gaily launched, in which Simon saw merely a
picturesque adventure, such as one reads of in novels, had suddenly
become the most formidable tragedy. It was no longer a matter of
cinema Indians and circus cow-boys, nor of droll discoveries in fabled
lands, but of real dangers, of ruthless brigands operating in regions
where no organized force could thwart their en