AS THEY were lingering over the breakfast table, that same morning, Margaret turned to May with a smile.

“And to think of them, off adventuring now, this very minute!” she exclaimed, pouting a little. “It was rather horrid of them to go at such an unearthly hour, when of course we weren’t up.”

May nodded cheerfully.

“Yes, I’d have enjoyed being in at the finish—if only I’d been invited.”

“And I, too,” Margaret declared. “Anyhow, it’s my affair in a way, so I think I’m entitled to a spectator’s privilege, at least.”

“It must be horribly exciting for you, with so much money involved,” May ventured, somewhat timidly.

Margaret received the suggestion without sign of offense, and answered seriously:

“I don’t wish Mr. Temple to fail. I don’t really need the money. Besides—” she broke off in confusion.“And, besides, everything may come out right, after all, for everybody concerned,” May said slily.

Margaret blushed to warmest rose, but she showed no displeasure at the innuendo.

“Except the poor musicians,” she remarked; and then the two girls laughed joyously. As a matter of fact, each of them understood perfectly the progress of the other’s love-affair, but their intimacy was too new for the most sacred confidences. Then, Margaret received an inspiration:

“Why, we’ll go,” she exclaimed. Her expression showed surprised triumph over the idea.

“Where?” May questioned, at a loss.

“To the island, of course,” came the brisk answer. “I’ll run and tell mother, and then we’ll paddle up there, and see everything that’s to be seen.”

“Splendid!” May cried with enthusiasm. She was interested in the outcome of the treasure-hunt, but at this moment her sole thought was a thrilling one to the effect that by the plan she would see Roy the sooner.

So, it came about that in mid-afternoon the two girls beached the canoe on the strip of sand at the island, and started toward the cavern. They were a little puzzled by the absence of the launch, and wondered if the fact were significant of good or ill fortune for the searchers. As they came to the top of the low bluff that rose from the shore, Margaret paused, and turned to look out over the lake.

“No, the launch isn’t in sight anywhere,” she said.

As she would have faced about to go on, a faint muffled sound came to her ears; the ground trembled very slightly; a movement of the lake’s surface caught her glance. A moment before, the tiny waves, glistening prisms under the sunlight, had made a scene of quiet beauty. Now, in the twinkling of an eye, there had come a change—a change curious, inexplicable, sinister. Out there in the lake, only a little way from the shore, the water, which had been so placid when they skimmed over it hardly a minute before, was now writhing in a horrible convulsion. Yet, no unwarned tempest racked the lake. The warm air was floating as languidly as hitherto. Nothing had been hurled into the water. There had been no crash of fallen meteor. Naught showed as the cause of this amazing contrast. Nevertheless, under her eyes, the erstwhile tranquil bosom of the lake heaved in rage. Fifty yards from the shore, the water raced, lashing itself in wrath about the sunken center of its vortex. Margaret, thrilled, astounded, terrified, caught May by the arm, pulled her about.

“See! See!” she cried, wildly. “What is it? What can it mean?”

May, too, was stupefied by the spectacle. She stared at it in wordless confusion. She could make no guess as to the cause of this extraordinary event, nor tried to. She merely watched the mad carouse of the flood, and stood aghast. A great fear of this uncanny thing fell on the two girls, so that they clung together for protection, shuddering, their faces pallid.

It seemed to the watchers as if that mysterious turmoil in the waters of the lake continued for hours, though, as Billy Walker might have explained to them, it was doubtless no more than a matter of minutes. The commotion spread over a broad area, but the girls had eyes only for the central place of the movement, the maelstrom near the shore, where the waters whirled in funnel shape, with the swaying hollow pointing the downward rush. An engineer would have known at first glance the reason for this churning of the lake, would have understood that some sudden vent below had set the tide racing to new liberty. But the girls had no such learning in physics. They could only look on in fascinated wonder, in awe. Haphazard, fantastic ideas darted in their brains, vague guesses concerning sea-serpents, earthquakes, tidal waves, waterspouts, which their own native sense rejected. Throughout the experience, neither was able to contrive any explanation of the extraordinary event. They were as confounded at the end as at the beginning.

Little by little, the waters of the lake ran slowly, and more slowly, in the path set them by the whorl. At last, there was scarcely a ripple to mark the spot where the cauldron had seethed hottest. Once again, there was nothing to see save the light tossing of the waves, dancing to the rhythm of the breeze toward the kisses of the sun. Margaret and May set their faces once more toward the cavern.

They were garrulous over the mystery—hardly concerned with the treasure-quest, for the moment. But the new interest had not lessened the desire of their hearts, and they quickened their steps, each at thought of the man she loved, now so near at hand. So they came soon to the cliff in the ravine, where was the entrance to the cave. Margaret had brought her torch, which Jake had recharged for her the night before from his own supplies. She pressed the button, pushed aside the concealing branches, and made her way within the opening, followed closely by May, who experienced a pleasurable excitement as she thus penetrated into the earth. The two came duly to the chamber, which they crossed to where the black openings into the tunnels showed. Now, May’s heart beat faster, as she found herself deep in this grim abode of darkness, where the limited radiance of the torch served but to make more grotesquely menacing the shadowy unknown on every side. Yet, she would not confess the fear that clutched at her—only, held fast to Margaret’s arm, and chatted with unusual volubility, while a little quaver crept in her voice. They entered the passage on the right, which Margaret had traversed with Saxe, and went forward with what speed they might over the rocks that cumbered the floor. They had descended for some distance, but had not yet reached the rift that led across into the other tunnel, when Margaret halted abruptly, with a gasp of amazement.

“It’s—it’s water!” she cried, dumfounded. She stood staring with dilated eyes, her lips parted, stupefied with astonishment, pointing with her free hand to the space before her, where the glow of the torch shone on a softly rippling level of water, which filled the tunnel like the contents of a well seen down the slope.

May, who had held her eyes fixed on the floor to save herself from stumbling, looked forward at the exclamation, and perceived the water. But the sight was not especially impressive to her. She supposed that here was merely a well in the path. She did not understand her friend’s dismay.

“What is it?” she asked, with no great interest. She wondered in which direction they would turn to pass by the pool.Margaret, however, was thinking with desperate energy. Her mind was naturally keen, and it had enjoyed advantages of careful training. She began, at last, to suspect something as to the true significance of the catastrophe in the lake, which hitherto had baffled comprehension. The presence of water in the cavern, where before had been no water, stunned her at first; then, as she apprehended vaguely the meaning of it, it appalled. There where the tunnel was steep, the water filled it completely. She went forward until the water was at her very feet, and stared down at it, her face colorless, her pulse bounding wildly, in the grip of cold horror. Finally, she began stammering affrightedly:

“The lake—the water out there—it’s broken into the cavern—they’re drowned—drowned—Saxe!” Her voice rose to a wail on the last word.

Margaret’s terror, rather than her words, had filled the other girl with dismay at the first. But “drowned” gave form to fear. May, in turn, was stricken with horror.

“Drowned?” she repeated, in a whisper. “Roy?” Her memory went back to the scene she had just witnessed on the lake. The utterance of Margaret, broken, uncomprehended, became hideously plain. It meant that the lake had somehow entered this cavern, which ran beneath the waters. In that case, the men down within the earth there must have been overwhelmed by the in-pouring flood. But, even as conviction came, her spirit refused credence to the truth. She cried aloud in revolt:

“No, no! No, I tell you! They are safe—safe!”

Margaret gave no heed to the folly of the words—the confidence in them spurred her to endeavor.

“Come!” she exclaimed. She whirled, and ran swiftly over the rubble, back the way they had come. Her thoughts were chaotic, but through them ran refusal to believe the worst. He—they—Saxe must have received warning—must be safe, somewhere, somehow—must be—must be! May, hard on Margaret’s heels, was sore pressed to keep the pace over the jumble of fragments.

When they had come to the great chamber, Margaret, without pause, turned into the passage on the left. With the same speed, she hurried along this, panting now. May ran just behind. Then, finally, the horror, against which Margaret had hoped, burst full on her. She halted, reeling, a shriek of despair wavering on her palsied lips. A few feet away, down the tunnel’s slope, lay the level black of water, shining gently under the beams of the torch, serene, implacable. May, too, saw and understood, and rested frozen in dumb anguish over this ending of all things.

There are certain calamities so unexpected, so monstrous, that the mind refuses to accept them as fact at first announcement, no matter what the proof. It was so here. The two girls—freshly stirring to the most subtle and the most potent of human emotions, love, come forth in the morning with gladness of heart to meet the men of their choice, gaily eager to learn of an adventure—were now, in a flash, confronted with an inconceivable disaster. They would not accept the fact—they could not. There was, there must be, some hideous mistake, soon to be cleared away. Despite all evidence, those they loved had not been done to death, down there within the abysses of the earth. Somewhere, somehow, they had escaped. They would come forth presently, and then there would be only laughter, where now was terror.

It was this refusal to believe that gave Margaret inspiration to action at last. Of a sudden, she bethought herself of that other entrance to the cavern, concerning which she had spoken to Saxe. On the instant, she again turned, and fled back through the tunnel without a word. May, not understanding, yet still defiant of fate, followed. The time was marvelously short until they were again in the ravine outside the cavern. But Margaret did not pause here—she did not even trouble to cut off the current of her torch, of which the glow showed wanly against the sunlight, as she went running swiftly through the ravine, and out on the little plateau that lay at its mouth. There, she hesitated, but only for a second, her eyes sweeping the undulations of the island while memory struggled for assurance. Certainty flashed on her, and again she leaped forward, May always close beside in the flight. Across the plateau Margaret sped, into a gully that ran toward the shore, up a stiff slope to the crest of a ridge, which was part of the bluff overlooking the lake. The summit was boulder-strewn, a medley of masses lying topsy-turvy. She threaded a way among the rocks, perforce more slowly, yet still with feverish haste. At last, she halted, with a great cry of joy.

“It is here!” she said softly. There was a note of reverent thankfulness in her voice.

May looked, wondering, and saw a small hole amid the rocks at her feet. It was less than a yard in length, and in breadth much narrower. She perceived that it was not quite vertical, though almost. A short way below the surface, its course was hidden in blackness.

Margaret wasted not a moment.

“They’re in there, I know,” she explained, succinctly, to May. “I’m going to show them the way out.”

As a matter of fact, the girl knew nothing as to the fact she stated so authoritatively. She had no least idea as to that part of the cavern on which the chimney gave. Her cousin had pointed it out, and had told her that by it he first made his way within. Beyond that, she knew nothing whatever. Hope dictated her claim to knowledge. She still denied any credence to the final catastrophe. Here, now, lay the sole avenue of escape. So she announced it with positiveness that admitted no question. Thus only might courage be held. May, for her part, eager to believe, received the declaration without doubt. Moreover, Roy had discoursed to her at length concerning the curious operations of the sixth sense. With that receptivity characteristic of the fond woman, she had accepted his pronouncements without hesitation, glad to believe whatsoever he believed. Besides, she had great faith in feminine intuition—and what was intuition, if not that self-same psychic thing over which her lover rhapsodized? Now, instinct cried that the man she loved was safe, and she believed.

“Shall I go, too?” she asked.

Margaret shook her head. She turned to scan the lake.

“No,” she said; “you couldn’t help—and it may be bad climbing. But I’m used to that. You keep watch for Jake and the launch. He may be needed later on.” With that as the last word, she let herself down into the chimney of the rocks. May from above gazed with wide eyes until the form of her friend disappeared into the blackness below. Then, she turned to look out over the lake, in anxious search for the coming of the launch. Standing alone there, with the dreadful mystery hidden within the earth under her feet, she felt a quick reaction of doubt, which welled swiftly to the torture of despair. The strength flowed from her. She sank to her knees, and stared down into the dark of the chasm with dull, unseeing eyes—rested motionless in the apathy of supreme misery.