aples that her niece and Farquharson had met. It had been,
as I surmised, a swift, romantic courtship, in which Farquharson,
quite irreproachable in antecedents and manners, had played the part
of an impetuous lover. Italian skies had done the rest. There was an
immediate marriage, in spite of Mrs. Stanleigh's protests, and the
young couple were off on a honeymoon trip by themselves. But when
Mrs. Stanleigh rejoined her husband at Nice, and together they
returned to their home in Sussex, a surprise was in store for them.
Eleanor was already there--alone, crushed, and with lips absolutely
sealed. She had divested herself of everything that linked her to
Farquharson; she refused to adopt her married name.

"I shall bless every saint in heaven when we have quite done with
this dreadful business of Eleanor's," Mrs. Stanleigh confided to me
from her deck-chair. "This trip that she insists on making herself
seems quite uncalled for. But you needn't think, Captain Barnaby,
that I'm going to set foot on that dreadful island--not even for the
satisfaction of seeing Mr. Farquharson's grave--and I'm shameless
enough to say that it _would_ be a satisfaction. If you could
imagine the tenth part of what I have had to put up with, all these
months we've been traveling about trying to locate the wretch! No,
indeed--I shall stay right here on this boat and entrust Eleanor to
your care while ashore. And I should not think it ought to take long,
now should it?"

I confessed aloud that I did not see how it could. If by any chance
the girl's secret conjecture about Leavitt's identity was right, it
would be verified in the mere act of coming face to face with him,
and in that event it would be just as well to spare the unsuspecting
aunt the shock of that discovery.

We reached Muloa just before nightfall, letting go the anchor in
placid water under the lee of the shore while the _Sylph_ swung to
and the sails fluttered and fell. A vast hush lay over the world.
From the shore the dark green of the forest confronted us with no
sound or sign of life. Above, and at this close distance blotting
out half the sky over our heads, towered the huge cone of Lakalatcha
with scarred and blackened flanks. It was in one of its querulous
moods. The feathery white plume of steam, woven by the wind into soft,
fantastic shapes, no longer capped the crater; its place had been
usurped by thick, dark fumes of smoke swirling sullenly about. In
the fading light