The Morton camp was not unlike other Adirondack camps owned by the wealthy New Yorker. It consisted of vast acres of wonderful forests, where conifers and hard wood intermingled. Through the tract wandered a pellucid trout stream. At a glance, one would know that those waters were teeming with wonderful trout, that many a big fellow of the finny tribe inhabited the depths that waited for the angler's lure.

The comfortable camp, built of rough-hewn logs with low sloping roof overhanging broad verandas, was built upon a bluff immediately above and overlooking the home of the most elusive, the most splendid speckled beauties—the trout that are the most savory on the table and the gamest in the water.

This morning, Roy Morton was well content with the world. It was late summer, and something of the languor of the season coursed in his blood. He sat on the porch, watching idly the dimpling waters below in a pool. He had an eager eye for the occasional leap of a trout to the surface in search of prey. He watched appreciatively the glint of rainbow tints on the iridescent sides as the fish rose and the sunlight showed all its splendor. While he gazed, at intervals, Roy worked on his fisherman's tackle. As the trout leaped, he studied that for which they leaped—with an idea of fashioning flies to suit their capricious taste. He finally determined just the fly that he should use for a cast at this hour of the day in order to entice the appetite of the trout. He had that particular fly upon his leader in readiness for a cast, and had started toward the stream to test his judgment in playing on the appetite of a fish, when his attention was distracted by the approach of an ungainly boy, evidently a native.

The boy held in his hand a telegram. Roy dropped his tackle, and held out his hand for the message. Mechanically, he tossed a coin to the lad. Then he ripped open the envelope and read the message.... And he read there Ethel's frantic appeal for help.

Roy was equally amazed and alarmed as he read and its meaning penetrated his brain. Usually, he was a young man distinguished for his coolness, resourcefulness and courage. Now, however, for the time being his brain was dazed; his heart leaped with fear. Through long minutes he stood motionless, staring with unseeing eyes, as if striving in vain to penetrate the veil of this terrible mystery that hung between him and the girl he loved. His thoughts were a miserable whirl of confusion; his will was powerless to marshal them in order. He did not note the going of the messenger boy, who sauntered casually back over the way he had come, whistling in happy unconsciousness as to the suffering of which he had been the harbinger.

Then, presently, Roy's mind cleared; his heart grew brave again; he felt a frantic desire for instant action. He looked about for the messenger boy, and uttered an exclamation of anger as he saw that the fellow was gone. He was desirous of sending on that very instant a telegram to the police authorities in New York, asking them to begin an investigation at once. He shouted for the boy, but there was no answer, and he realized that the messenger was gone beyond recall.

Roy wheeled, and rushed into the house. He ordered a horse saddled, and within five minutes was galloping at breakneck speed for the station. He knew that the next regular train was not due for three hours, but he had decided without any hesitation that he would order a special. He felt that no haste could equal the necessity now when Ethel was momently being carried further and further away from him, when perhaps her life, her honor, were imperilled by the scoundrels who had her in their keeping.

On his arrival at the station, Roy issued his orders with a crisp air of authority that won instant obedience from the man who served as station master and telegraph operator. The telegraph key sounded busily for a few minutes, and the matter was arranged. A special would be ready for him within an hour. This would get him to Albany in time to make connection with the limited express for New York.

That accomplished, Roy cantered leisurely back to the camp. As he rode, his mind was concentrated on plans for his future course. He resolved to keep the matter secret from his elderly mother, who was by no means in good health. Instead, he would merely tell her that a friend of his was in trouble, and that he must go immediately to New York, in order to straighten out the affair. His mother accepted his explanation without any suspicion that he had told her only a half-truth. She merely mourned over this interruption of his visit, and made him promise to return at the earliest possible moment. Roy felt shame over the subterfuge with which he had deceived his mother, but he knew that it was necessary for her own sake, while her knowledge of Ethel's plight could do no good.

Roy hastily, but methodically, packed his traveling bag, and then, after an affectionate farewell to his mother, stepped into the town wagon, and was driven to the station.

After reaching the station, Roy occupied the short interval of waiting for the special by writing out two messages, which he had put on the wire to New York. The first of these was addressed to the Collector of the Port, asking whether or not clearance papers had been taken out for The Isabel. The other telegram was to the most noted detective agency in the city, which contained a request that their best operative should meet him at the arrival of his train in the Grand Central Terminal. He directed that the replies, in each instance, should be sent to him at Albany, in care of the limited train with which he would make connection there.

The second message was barely completed and delivered to the telegrapher when the special roared to a standstill by the station platform. Roy sprang quickly up the steps, and almost before he had entered the car the locomotive was again snorting on its way.

The loungers about the station watched greedily this unexpected interruption of the day's routine. And, too, there was bitter envy in their hearts directed toward this handsome, young aristocrat, who could thus summon a train for his private pleasure. They could not guess anything of the black misery that marked the mood of the young man whom they deemed so favored of fate.

Roy's impatience was such that he could not sit for a minute at a time. Instead, he strode to and fro with the feverish intensity of a leopard padding swiftly backward and forward in its cage. So he moved restlessly, though walking in the car was none too easy. There was need of haste if the special would catch the limited express at Albany. It was evident that the engineer and fireman had no mind to fail in the task set for them. The fireman gave steam a plenty, and the engineer made use of it with seemingly reckless prodigality. The car swayed and leaped with the excessive speed. On the curves, sometimes, it appeared as if it must be thrown off the track, and Roy was compelled to cling fast to his seat in order to avoid falling. But he felt no distress over the rocking, lurching progress. Rather, he found a grim joy in it, since it was haste, and always more haste, for which he longed.... And then, at last, the special thundered into the Albany station and clanged to a standstill. Roy breathed a sigh of relief. The limited express had not yet pulled in.

He had time to make inquiry concerning telegrams, and found one awaiting him from the Collector of the Port of New York. This simply stated that no papers had been issued for the clearing of the yacht Isabel. The message added that if the vessel had sailed it must have been stolen. Just as he finished the reading of this dispatch, the operator handed him a second telegram—one from the detective agency. It announced that their best operative would meet him in the terminal at the gate on the arrival of the limited express in New York. There was a direction added to the effect that the operative might be recognized by his standing apart from the crowd and wearing two white carnations in the lapel of his coat.

Arriving at the Grand Central terminal, Roy walked rapidly to the exit gate. His eyes roamed for a moment over the passing throng in search of the man with the boutonniÈre of white carnations, and presently picked him out where he stood a little apart. Roy hurried to him, and made himself known. At once then the two men left the station and crossed over to the Biltmore, where they took seats in the lobby for a conference.

Jack Scott, the detective, had won fame for his agency by his masterly work in solving the problems of many skilful jewel robberies among the wealthy residents of the metropolis. He yet lacked some years of thirty, but his reputation was already of the highest among those who knew what his occupation was. For, as a matter of fact, the young man was of old Knickerbocker stock, and the inheritor of wealth. He had a genius for detective work and a love of the calling that compelled him to make it his vocation. But his employment in this wise was known only to the head of the agency with which he had associated himself, and to a few trusted intimates. The better to guard his secret he adopted the plebeian alias of Jack Scott for professional purposes instead of his own aristocratic name.

He had first won the admiring attention of the detective agency's chief by an exploit when he was only eighteen years of age. At that time his mother was robbed of a fabulously valuable pearl necklace. Extraordinary rewards were offered for its recovery, and detectives big and small hunted high and low for the gems. They failed utterly in their search. But the lad worked out a theory as to the theft, gained evidence to prove it the truth—in short, within a fortnight, he had recovered the pearls, and the thieves were safely lodged in jail.

Already at this early age, the boy was profoundly interested in uplift work among criminals. When his mother smilingly turned over to him the reward she had offered for the recovery of her necklace, he devoted the whole sum to this charitable work. And ever since he had made a like disposal of the proceeds from his professional services. Now, Roy recognized in the detective assigned to him by the agency, an acquaintance of his own, Arthur Van Dusen. He expressed his astonishment at this revelation concerning one whom he had regarded merely as a social butterfly. But explanations were soon made, and Roy could not doubt Van Dusen's ability since it was guaranteed by the agency.

He immediately made known his need of help.

"I'm afraid," he began with a tremor of anxiety in his voice, "that you have been assigned to a case which will prove hard to solve. The woman I love—the woman I had expected to marry soon—has been taken from me in a most mysterious way. Somehow she's been kidnapped, and taken to sea a prisoner on her father's yacht."

"Her name?" Van Dusen demanded crisply as the speaker paused.

"It's Ethel Marion," Roy answered huskily. "The daughter of Colonel Stephen Marion, who, at present, is with his regiment on the Mexican Border." He drew Ethel's message from his pocket and extended it to the detective.

"The only clue I have," he continued, "is this letter from her. She managed somehow to toss it near enough to a fisherman's dory so that they picked it up, and forwarded it to my mother's camp in the Adirondacks. I wired the Collector of the Port for information about the yacht's clearance papers. I had a reply from him at Albany on the way down here. He said that the yacht has not been cleared, and that if it's not in port, it has been stolen."

Roy fairly groaned, and made a gesture of despair.

"That's all I know of the affair," he added drearily. "I am distracted for fear something dreadful may have happened already. You understand now how badly I require your help. I can think of nothing—do nothing. You are not to think of expense. Just rescue Ethel Marion and run down and jail those guilty of this crime against her." His voice suddenly became pleading. "And you must let me enlist as a lieutenant to serve under you. Inactivity under such stress would drive me mad, I know. I was stunned at first, but now I have my faculties again, and I believe that I may be able to be of use in the case under your guidance."

Van Dusen stretched out his hand and clasped that of Roy warmly. Something in the firm contact comforted the distraught lover. It was as if strength and courage flowed into him from the other man.

"Rely upon me," Van Dusen said quietly, but with a note of confidence in his voice that still further served to hearten his hearer. "And I shall certainly make use of you—and at once. First off, I'll ask you to get in touch immediately with Captain Halstead, the master of my yacht. Arrange to have it properly equipped and provisioned, so that we may sail at a moment's notice. Luckily," he added musingly to himself, "the new wireless outfit is already installed on The Hialdo. We'll need it."

Van Dusen stood up abruptly, and again spoke to Roy, almost curtly.

"After you've attended to the matter of the yacht, report to me at the agency. You should be there well within an hour. If you arrive first, wait for me."

"But you——?" Roy began eagerly.

Van Dusen replied to the unfinished question.

"I'm off now to seek a clue from Miss Marion's maid." His voice grew gentle as he spoke again after a moment's silence. "It's a curious case; curious and—difficult. But, please God, we'll win."

Roy's answer came brokenly.

"Heaven bless you, Van Dusen! And," he added with fierce intensity, "we will win—we must!"