It was dark and the mud village was strangely quiet. Thin mist drifted about the house Don Felix had occupied, and Wyndhams' new agent leaned forward slackly with his arm on the table. He was a young French creole, but his face was pinched and careworn.

Marston, sitting in a corner, studied the man. When he last saw Lucien Moreau he was vigorous and marked by a careless confidence. Now his glance was furtive and sometimes he fixed it on the window. There was no glass and the shutters had been left open because the night was hot. Marston remembered Don Felix's disconcerting habit of looking at the window when it was dark. The miasma from the swamps had obviously undermined Moreau's health; but Marston doubted if this accounted for all.

Moreau had been talking for two or three minutes when Wyndham stopped him.

"I understand you want to give up your post?" he said.

"That is so," the other agreed. "For one thing, you do not need an agent when you are closing down your business." He paused and gave Wyndham a sullen look. "Besides, I have had enough."

"Your pay is good."

"Good pay is of no use if one dies before one can spend it," Moreau rejoined.

"Very well," said Wyndham. "If you have had enough, we must try to let you go. However, since your engagement runs for some time, you must stay a month."

Moreau agreed unwillingly and Wyndham asked: "Have you sent for the fellow who gave us our last load?"

"He is coming to-night. You will stay until he goes?"

"Of course," said Wyndham, smiling. "I don't want to put too much strain on you. It looks as if you were afraid of your customers."

"I am afraid. One is always afraid here," Moreau admitted. "It has been worse since you did not send the goods you promised."

"We will send no more," said Marston firmly and they talked about something else until they heard steps outside and a man came in.

He was a big, dark-skinned fellow and carried a thick blanket folded across his shoulder. His feet and the most part of his thin legs were bare, his chest and arms were powerful, and he looked truculent. He glanced at Marston curiously and then turned to Wyndham.

"Have you brought payment for my goods?" he asked in uncouth Castilian.

"We have," said Wyndham. "SeÑor Moreau has a list of the cargo and we will begin to unload in the morning. Tell him what we have brought, Don Lucien."

Moreau did so and the other frowned. "These things are of no use to me."

"They are standard trade goods that count as money," Wyndham replied."You know what we wanted," said the other and added, meaningly:

"In this country, it is not prudent for a stranger to disown his debts."

"We are not cheats," Marston rejoined. "The stuff is all good, but we are willing to pay in money."

Wyndham stopped him and turned to the mulatto. "If you are not satisfied, send your master. We do not dispute with servants."

Moreau looked alarmed, as if he thought the reply would provoke the other, but Wyndham gave him a peremptory glance, and he said a few words in Castilian. The mulatto smiled, a rather cruel, knowing smile.

"One needs courage to dispute with the Bat. It is not often people in his debt want to see him."

"All the same, we want to see him."

"I doubt if he will come. The custom is to send a present and ask leave to visit the Bat; but I will take your message."

"And what about the goods?" Wyndham asked.

"I can do nothing until I get an order."

"Then we'll send them up the creek and put them in the store. You can let them remain or take them, as you like. We have paid our debt."

"I doubt," said the other grimly and with an ironical salutation went off.

Marston felt relieved when he had gone, and soon afterwards he and Wyndham walked through the silent village to the creek. There were no lights, the quietness and gloom were disturbing and Marston noted that the negroes had not left the boat. He thought they were glad when Wyndham told them to shove off.

"We have made our first move. I expect you don't see the next," he said.

"Not yet," Wyndham agreed. "It depends on our antagonist. I think he'll understand our challenge, but it's going to be an intricate game."

Marston lighted his pipe and tried to think about something else. He hated intrigue and liked to see his path. It was a relief when Columbine's lights began to twinkle in the mist, and he went to the cabin when they got on board. The little room was very hot and no air seemed to pass the gauze beneath the skylight, but the glow of the brass lamp was comforting. He owned that he had begun to fear the dark.

Next day they unloaded cargo and when they stopped in the evening Marston took his gun and went off in the dinghy. The tide was near its lowest ebb, the uncovered mud banks gave off a sickly smell, and for a time Marston pulled languidly down the channel. Then he saw a strip of firmer bank, where a little path came out. A creek flowed through the wet forest not far off, and he thought he might find his way across; the ducks fed at twilight in the pools in the swamps. Pulling up the dinghy, he looked at his watch. The tide had not turned, there was a moon, and it would not be very dark. One got cramped on board the yacht and he wanted exercise.

The path was faint and the ground wet, but it bore his foot. Here and there a huge cottonwood towered above the jungle, which was choked by fallen branches and fresh growth that sprang from the tangled ruin of the old. Knotted creepers strangled slender trees and pulled each other down to the corruption that covered the boggy soil. Green things rotted as they grew; parasitic plants drained the sap from drooping boughs. One sensed the pitiless savageness of the struggle for life, in which the beaten were devoured by the survivors before they were dead.

Dark water that smelt horribly oozed through the jungle, the mosquitoes had come out, and Marston pulled down the veil fastened to his double felt hat. The forest daunted him, there was something about it that one felt in a nightmare, but he was tired of loafing, and pushed on. If he could reach the creek, he might get a shot. By and by, however, the path bent back towards the lagoon, and he stopped at the edge of a channel that crossed his path. It was not wide, but looked deep and the banks were very soft. The creek he meant to reach was farther on.

Marston considered. The channel marked the edge of the forest, which it followed for some distance and then, turning, ran obliquely to the lagoon. There was a muddy flat on the other side where he thought ducks might feed, and he did not want to turn back. All the same, he did not like the bridge that spanned the channel. Somebody had thrown a small trunk across and stayed it, as a suspension-bridge is stayed, by creepers partly pulled down from neighboring trees. The log looked rotten and the rounded top was wet with slime. The water obviously covered it when the tide was full. Marston, however, was sure footed and steadying himself by the bent creepers, went cautiously across.

When he reached the flat the sand and mud were soft and his step got labored, but the light was going, he heard ducks, and thought he might get near them in the gloom. They flew off, and he followed some curlews that led him on for a time and then vanished with a mournful cry. Marston stopped and looked about. He had gone far enough, the tide had turned, and it was getting dark. Dark came quickly at the lagoon.

Across the little channel, mangroves rose from sloppy mud. Their roots were five or six feet high, and mudfish splashed in the holes beneath. Crabs crawled about the roots, for he heard their claws scratch on the smooth bark. He knew the noise; one heard it on board the schooner when the tide was low, and Marston hated the hideous mangrove-crabs that swarmed about the lagoon. They were savage and not afraid. If one sat on the sand, they crawled over one's body and their bite was sharp. A curlew's wild cry pierced the gloom and then all was quiet.

Marston frowned. Now the light was going, the forest looked sinister. Perhaps he was imaginative, but his half-conscious shrinking had some grounds. In the tropics the woods were hostile and sheltered man's enemies, of which the insect tribes were perhaps the worst. They attacked in hosts, with poisoned jaws. Then a pale glimmer caught Marston's wandering glance. The tide was creeping across the mud.

He went back and stopped at the bridge. Dark had fallen, but the moon was above the jungle and its light touched the channel. The log ran across like a thin black bar, a few feet above the slime. It looked frailer than when he had come. He braced himself, and balancing carefully, went a yard or two along the trunk. Then he heard a crack and seized the creeper as the log dropped under his feet. He held fast, although the strain on his arm was sharp. There was a splash, the creeper broke, and swinging back with one end, he dropped in the mud. It rose to his knee and for a minute or two he splashed and struggled furiously. Somehow he got out and floundered back to the bank he had left. He was breathless and rather surprised to find he had not dropped the gun, but the arm by which he had hung was horribly sore.

Then it dawned on him that he was on the wrong side of the channel and could not get across. When he fell into the mud he was not far from the bank, but he had gone deep and it was unthinkable that he should venture farther out. The half-liquid mire would suck him down. Still the tide was rising and he could not stop on the flat. After a few moments, another thing struck him; when he crossed, the bridge, although narrow and slippery, was firm, but now it had given way as soon as it bore his weight. The log had slipped down, or broken, suddenly. He wondered whether it had been meant to break. A few strokes with the cutlass the half-breeds carried would be enough, and he could not have struggled out had he dropped where the mud was deep.

Marston clenched his fist and raged with helpless fury. He was persuaded somebody, with devilish cunning, had set the trap for him. When the tide rose the dinghy would drift up the lagoon and in the morning the yacht's crew would find her stuck among the mangrove roots. It would look as if he had landed on a mud bank and had stopped too long. Then, with an effort, Marston pulled himself together. He must search for a place where the bottom was not so soft.He ran across the flat, heading for the lagoon and hoping he might find a belt of firm sand that would enable him to wade across, but there was none, and by and by he came to the main channel. It was wider and he saw clumps of weed and flakes of foam drift past. The tide was rising and would presently cover the flat. He went back as near as he could get to the jungle, and sitting down with the gun across his knees, took off his shoes. He had sometimes gone wild-fowling on the English coast and knew one can pull one's naked foot out of mud where one's boot would stick. The gun might be an embarrassment, but he meant to keep it to the last, because the fellow who had cut the bridge might be lurking about.

Treading very cautiously, Marston tried the bank again, but began to sink and had some trouble to regain the flat. It was obvious that he could not cross, and he doubted if he would be much better off if he reached the mangroves some distance from the path. The tide flowed back among them, their trunks were slender, and they were haunted by poisonous insects and the horrible crabs. If the crabs attacked him when the tide rose and he was forced to cling to the trees, he could not beat them off. All the same, he could not swim to the schooner.

For a time he wandered up and down the flat. Although he saw no way of escape, he could not keep still. In the end, he must swim, but he meant to wait until the tide drove him off the flat. There was not much use in swimming when one could not find a spot to land. The rising water presently forced him back to the small channel, where he stopped. The moon had got bright and although, for the most part, the mangroves on the other side rose like a dark wall, the silver beams touched their branches here and there. Marston searched them keenly, because he had a strange feeling that somebody was about. Perhaps the fellow who had cut the bridge had stopped to watch him drown.

He thought he heard a soft rustle, leaves moved, and throwing the gun to his shoulder, he pulled the trigger. The barrel jerked, the sharp report rolled across the woods, and leaves and twigs came down; but that was all, and Marston, swinging the gun, pulled the other trigger. Then as the echoes died away he thought he heard a distant shout and a regular throbbing noise. He paused as he pushed in fresh cartridges, and listened hard. The noise was like the splash of oars and got louder. It was the splash of oars, and a shout came across the water again. Marston fired another shot and then waited, trembling with the reaction. Wyndham was coming for him on board the gig and the crew were pulling hard. They would reach him before the tide covered the flat.

When the sand was all but covered, the boat grounded close by and Marston got on board. Wyndham gave him a nod and Marston noted that he was hot and breathless. A heavy oar he had thrown down lay in the sculling notch.

"The boys went out to make fast a warp and saw the dinghy drifting up," Wyndham remarked. "We reckoned we had better start."

"Thanks!" said Marston, who imagined his comrade did not want to talk just then. "Have you got a cigarette?"They shoved off and when they reached Columbine went to the cabin. Marston mixed a cocktail.

"There's enough for two," he said. "I expect you sculled pretty hard."

"I did," Wyndham admitted. "The boys shoved her along handsomely; looks as if they liked you, but the tide was rising fast. Well? What were you shooting at?"

"I imagined it was at the man who sent the dinghy adrift."

"Ah," said Wyndham, "I wondered—didn't think you'd carelessly stop too long. In fact, I was pretty anxious until I heard the gun. But do you reckon somebody did push off the dinghy?"

Marston stated his grounds for believing this, and Wyndham, after pondering for a few moments, looked hard at him.

"Well, I suppose you see what it implies?"

"I'm in the way. Somebody meant to get rid of me."

"Yes; but that's not all," said Wyndham, with a dry smile. "It looks as if I'm not thought dangerous; the man we're up against is not persuaded my reform's sincere. On the whole, this may be an advantage. To puzzle your antagonist is good strategy."

He drained his glass and lighted his pipe. "In the meantime, we'll let it go. What about the new running gear? Have we enough manilla rope for the peak-halyards?"