It seemed that either Gates or I must be out of our senses.

"Blow us up!" I gasped, staring at him.

"As sure as you're born, sir! 'Twas about the time you called over the rail. A little before that, as you gentlemen were talking, I heard a small boat. She came near, and she came up sneaking. First I thought it might be a sponge fisher with more curiosity than manners, but as she didn't start on again I begun to cock my ear. Then something gave a rub against our rudder post. I didn't like it. I was sitting back there, anyhow, so just got to my hands and knees, and peeped over."

"Why didn't you challenge?"

"Because there's been strange doings these twenty-four hours parst, and I knew your affairs might be taking a serious turn. I thought you'd be wanting to know their play, 'stead of scaring 'em off. So I peeped and listened. With my eyes getting fair used to the dark I made out a dinghy with four men, and think they'd bent a line about our rudder post, for the for'ard man seemed to be working at us silent and farst. The middle one had the oars, ready to pull away. In the stern sheets sat the one I guessed was boss and, kind of squatting down in front of him, was a lad. To tell the truth, sir, I felt squirmy, for those night-hawks were up to something mysterious."

"Wait a minute, Gates—did you recognize them?"

"Not me, sir. As I was saying, the fellow aft now parssed up a bundle to the for'ard chap, who took it gingerly and began farstening it on to us somewhere—I couldn't see. The young lad leaned over and looked at it, then he up and sings out: 'It ain't fair!'"

"Yes, yes," I caught him by the shoulders. "Go on, Gates!"

"Mind out this thing under my coat," he warned. "Well, sir, the one that was boss made a grab for him—Lor', how he did jerk him!—and the others froze like stone. They stayed that way while you were calling, then the dinghy glided off—the one aft still holding his hand over the lad's mouth and kind of choking him with the other."

My blood was fairly steaming, and I cried out what was uppermost in my mind:

"That wasn't a lad, Gates! It was a girl!"

His jaw dropped and he stared at me, but slowly shook his head.

"No, sir, it warn't a girl, or the fellow wouldn't have handled her so rough. Besides, sir, he wore—the lad, I mean—a jacket and cap like you or me."

"That doesn't mean anything. I tell you it was a girl—I'm sure of it!"

"Well, sir, you're wrong; for when they got out five fathom or so they stopped—to listen, maybe. You were back in the cockpit by then, and I guess the fellow must have let up on the young-un; for, all at once, he—the lad, I mean—raked a match along the gunnel, for to take a smoke, d'you see! My word, but the way he was grabbed this time would have shocked you. I couldn't see it, but you could hear the youngster gurgling. That shows it warn't a girl, sir!"

"What shows it? Because you think she wanted to smoke? Girls do, Gates!"

"They do that, sir, and I'm not gainsaying it; but they do it sociable, arfter dinner, setting 'round the cockpit, as you might say. It's seldom any of 'em has such a mortal craving for tobacco as to have to take a suck at a little cigarette every time a man chokes her by the throat. My word, no! It's the male sex that wants the weed under those conditions—not a girl, sir!"

But I was seeing an entirely different version of the affair, so far as the smoking went; and Gates would have seen it, too, if he hadn't been so excited. She had not wanted to smoke, at all, but to signal us! I knew it! I was never more sure of anything in all creation!

"And besides, sir," Gates now added, "no one would push his fingers into a girl's throat like——"

"Stop," I cried, for I could not listen to more of this. If ever I wanted to kill it was then. I wanted to get my own fingers on that scoundrel's throat as he had dared touch hers; and in my heart I swore by all the gods, by all the stars and moons and other things in the heavens and under the sea, that I would strangle out his miserable life by inches, or leave my bones to bleach on the shore of her unknown island. Wherever it was, I would find it; wherever she was, I would find her!—and God help him when he came my way! It was a classy oath, and I felt a lot better for it.

"Now, sir," Gates's voice began to tremble with passion as he held up a black thing that had been tucked under his coat, "this invention I took off our rudder post when I rowed 'round to see what they'd been up to. It's a dirty bomb, fixed to start us off for Davy Jones's Locker sometime tonight, sir!"

"You're sure it can't start us off now?" I asked, taking it from his hands.

"Not lest you get too familiar, sir. I've disconnected the clock part of it."

"Have you any idea what those men looked like?"

He solemnly shook his head.

"You can't guess who they were, or why they wanted to blow us up?" I persisted. "Shall we notify the port, or what?"

He stood a while silent before answering.

"Mr. Jack, God knows who they are. It was too dark for me to get any satisfying squint at 'em; but I never saw 'em before—that I know. Three things are sure: they're either lunatics, or they've taken us for some mortal enemy, or——"

"Well?"

"Or I'm wrong in those two guesses, sir."

"But you think they're from the Orchid, don't you?"

"On another guess, I'd swear it, sir."

"And you're positive you never saw the yacht till yesterday—in any port?"

"Never, sir. I even made inquiry about her in Havana before we cleared to-day—that is, without exciting comment. A one-eyed stevedore said she drops in there maybe once or twice a year, but he didn't know from where. I've never seen her, and I've sailed close to thirty year most everywhere in these waters during winter seasons!"

"Well, I'm stumped," I admitted. "Let's take this to the professor and see what he makes of it." So we went down together.

Monsieur, in his stateroom, sat bent over his counterfeit bill when I quietly shoved the bomb in front of him. He sprang up with a broadside of expletives that in the sunlight would have cast a wondrous rainbow. It was a way with the little professor, and we had learned to keep respectfully distant during such periods of effervescing energy.

"Tied to our rudder post," I told him.

He seemed to grasp the entire situation at once. I have never known such a genius for corraling facts! In an instant his mind apparently galloped completely around the boundary of our discovery, and then circled in.

"You have made it harmless," was his first oral observation.

"Gates did, yes; he disconnected the clock-work."

"It is quickly made, and crude," he mused, turning it over in his hands, "but the work of one who is not a novice. Give me the other part!—um! Very pretty, very pretty, indeed!" Then he looked up, calling: "My boy Tommy, come! We are to see what we shall see!"

"See what?" Tommy sauntered in; but as we explained the situation he looked positively hopeful. For the chief quality in Tommy that made him so likable was his abiding love of danger. He would rather flirt with death than a ravishing coquette—though I will not deny his preference to play the pair.

"Oh, boy!" he now chuckled, giving my arm a squeeze.

As we gathered about the table, Monsieur took a knife and began to press its blade into the covering of the bomb, saying:

"I have known the builder of one of these to leave his tracks inside, trusting the explosion to obliterate them. But sometimes the machine does not go off."

"Let's hope this'll be one of those times," Tommy murmured, "or we'll pretty well leave our tracks all over the Gulf. Don't use any bad judgment, Professor. Centuries are looking down at you!"

"I shall try not," he smiled, pushing the blade deeper and giving a gentle twist.

"I should say he ought to be doing that ashore, sir," Gates whispered. "Lor' knows this is no place——"

But Monsieur was speaking again.

"The gentleman who left it with us may have used bad judgment by not exploding it himself. So much the worse for him. Steady!" he grunted, peeling off another slice of the wrapper. "Yet, if criminals did not sometimes use bad judgment, a sorry plight would be ours, eh? Moreover, it is natural that they use bad judgment, for, being criminals, their judgment is bad—primarily bad, or they would not be criminals."

"Please work without your tongue or talk without your hands," I said, with a touch of irritation. "That thing's nervous for undivided attention!"

The professor may not have heard, and in a monotone continued:

"The man who made it knew his business; therefore he is a student of this type of explosives; therefore a police agent, a—what you call—crank like myself, or a destroying criminal—that is, an anarchist. Therefore he is the last named, since neither of the others would want to blow up a gentleman's yacht. It seems clear to you?" he asked, without raising his eyes; but none of us cared to divert his attention by answering.

By now Monsieur had peeled off several pieces of the wrapper, and was sprawled over the table with a powerful magnifying lens. For some time he minutely studied them, finally squinting closely at a particular one and beginning to show increased excitement. Arising and pushing by us, he went to his many boxes and returned with a small glass-stoppered bottle. It must have contained an acid; at any rate, he touched a drop of it to a piece of the inner wrapping, then bent over to watch results. Finally, with very bright eyes, he looked up announcing in a voice of triumph:

"This paper is the kind they use for printing money on!"

We stared at him, but he volunteered nothing further, having again bent over his search. For several minutes we watched in silence. Then he sat up with a snap, as a steel spring might be released.

"The man who made this bomb made my counterfeit bank note," he cried.

Tommy and I jumped.

"Just so," he continued eagerly. "The bomb is a hurried affair, impromptu, constructed of materials happening to be at hand when needed. That necessity, we assume, arose within the last few hours, since we have been in these waters but shortly. Here is a piece of the wrapper. You make nothing of it, yet to my experienced knowledge I see the identical paper on which my money is printed. The counterfeiter, possessing a good resisting paper and suddenly desiring to make a bomb, employs it. So much for so much! Now we have him a bomb-maker and a counterfeiter;—then we shall eliminate the anarchist!"

"Why?" I asked.

"Because a counterfeiter of such skill—and this engraving is the work of a master—implies long and intense application; therefore a secluded life rather than one of following the red flag. Moreover, an anarchist would be tempted into this risk, such as tried upon us, only to destroy someone of great importance—which I may conclude no one of us is. And irrespective of these reasons counterfeiters do not sympathize with anarchy. The psychology of each must be diametric, for if there is no government to make money there is no money to counterfeit. So the anarchist in our case lacks motive, but the other finds it if he suspects us of knowing his secret. So much for so much. Do we know any counterfeiter's secret? No. Then a final theory: the placer of this bomb has mistaken us for an enemy—he thinks we are whom we are not!"

"That's what I said," Gates interposed.

"But he does suspect us of knowing it," Tommy exclaimed, "or why did he tell the waiter Jack was a detective?"

The professor, obviously disappointed, turned again to the bomb that was fast reaching a state of dÉshabille—if bombs can be said to reach that state.

"You assume this to be the work of people on that yacht," he said, with a touch of annoyance. "Can you sustain that theory?"

"Why, of course, sir," Gates declared.

"A mere presumption, mon Capitaine!"

"But the voice," I challenged. "Don't you suppose I recognized it?"

"Tut-tut, my boy Jack! You have never actually heard the lady's voice!" And as this was true I had nothing further to offer; but he brightened up, adding: "We shall now go to the stomach of the bomb, if only to enjoy ourselves."

"You've a curious idea of fun," I grunted.

"Just go easy," Tommy said. "She may be ticklish."

"Why not sink the wicked thing at once, sir," Gates urged. "We've seen enough now to keep us awake nights, and I haven't any craving to look at its stomach, Lor' knows I haven't!"

But the professor would not listen. Already he had recommenced the exploration, gingerly removing some wires wrapped about the explosive center, while we almost held our breaths lest he touch the wrong thing. Once he smiled, and murmured: "Le capitaine is right—it was made on the Orchid!" Yet he did not stop work for this, and soon brought to view two half sticks of dynamite, one of them ingeniously capped. Leaning above this now, with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, he sank into a profound study, then startled us by giving a snort and springing up, jostling the table so violently that the dynamite slid gracefully toward the edge. Most happily Tommy grabbed it in time.

"Lor', sir, 'twas a close shave," Gates whispered, wiping his forehead.

But Monsieur remained blissfully unconscious of the mess so narrowly averted. He was staring, breathing heavily, blinking and thinking. As though walking in his sleep he again went to his mysterious bags, took out something and began to study it through the lens. Then with a yell he rushed at me, hugged me, kissed me on the cheek, held me off, and hugged me again, crying over and over:

"I am right—I am right—I am right!"

He now caromed from me and in the same manner embraced Tommy, and after this he tackled Gates. But Gates did not understand the continental fashion of masculine salutations, and sternly disengaged himself, saying:

"You carn't be right, sir! I don't know what's the matter, but it's easy to see you carn't just be right!"

"SacrÉ bleu!" Monsieur stepped back, actually weeping with happiness. "What stupid idiots we are! Can't you see?"

"I can see one," Tommy grinned at him sweetly.

"Ah, but look!" He thrust before us the thing he had taken from the bag. It was that precious kodak film of Sylvia. "Look!" he cried. "You say she is near to twenty—he, to seventy-five! But, more than all, I see with my lens that here is the breathing likeness of the mother! Where are your eyes, my boys? Ciel, must I tell you? She is the kidnaped princess of Azuria!"

You who read may have surmised this; so might we, had we been reading instead of making history. The human mind that leans above a printed page possesses a more concentrated grasp of facts than the human atoms who run over the earth collecting them. So I caught my breath and simply stared, too dazed to speak. It seemed as though something had given me a surprising whack that sent a thousand sparks before my eyes. But then slowly the whole structure began to unfold. Each step of evidence we had picked up since the memorable night but twenty-four hours ago, now took its place as the panorama—not flawless, but with inviting possibilities,—and passed across my brain.

It was very late when we pushed back from the table. In its center were the counterfeit bill, the magnifying glass, parts of the thoroughly dissected bomb, several pages of writing pad with the professor's deductions; and by these were some of Gates' charts, the paper I had procured from the waiter, and another page containing those mystic sentences Sylvia had spoken for finding her island—because I thought it fair to her that this should be laid before my friends, especially as she had only said them in a dream.

Strangely enough the professor was willing to admit them to his scheme of carrying on our pursuit—a chase which he now seemed determined to direct—when even Tommy, the superstitious Tommy, declared they would throw us off the track a thousand miles. I could think of no plan, for altogether it did seem like combing out the universe for two human atoms.

"We have one sure way, of course," the professor leaned wearily back. "Keep the Orchid in sight. If we do this till she reaches her lair, all is well."

"I wouldn't doubt she sailed, sir, right arfter placing the bomb," Gates ventured.

"Then we can't keep her in sight," said Tommy dolefully.

"Do not thwart me," the little fellow cried, with a sudden flare of anger that made us smile in spite of the serious work at hand.

"We'd better go ashore first," I suggested, "and get authority to capture her. The government can deputize us by sending along an officer."

"Authority!" Monsieur puffed out his cheeks and snapped his finger. "That for your government's authority! I have the authority with me!"

"You!" I exclaimed.

"Certainement! I was one of those true friends who left the palace years ago, with the old King's authority in my pocket! It is in that bag now! It is absolute—absolute!—protecting me against anything I may do in effecting her rescue and return. It is by far more powerful than anything your government could give us! A King's order makes the police of the world my underlings! Besides that, she is my special charge, and no power this side of Azuria can abrogate my authority over her!"

A cold hand wrapped its fingers about my heart. The hopelessness of our search would have been depressing enough had it not contained the spice of chase, but to feel that it might be fruitful only to have her snatched off into a world as unknown, as impossible to me as this far off kingdom, was crazing. To me it would be like seeing her transported from one star to another, while I remained on earth to gaze my eyes out and eat my heart out with endless longing.

"Her mother is regent, you say?" Tommy asked, intuitively sympathizing with my state of mind.

"Yes. In Roumania a woman may not ascend the throne alone, but in Azuria, where the Ruman blood has never mixed, she may act as regent if her heir is a girl too young to marry. But now," he clapped his hands joyfully, "we can complete the alliance with a neighboring prince—and, ah, what joy there will be!"

"You've got to catch her first," Tommy said, not without a trace of spite. "Even if we get near enough to see him, at all, he can see us, too; then lead us off the track till night and make a run for base."

"So he will, my boy Tommy. And if his lair is to the west, he will doubtless lead us to the east. But we must sail at dawn—then we shall see what we shall see!"

"Good night," I said, abruptly kicking back my chair.

Thus our meeting broke up; Gates going first to sink the dynamite and then leave orders for all canvas to be stretched at peep o' day. Tommy came on deck with me, and we stood a while looking into the black water. Off in the town, in a side street near the wharf where sailors' amusement halls are clustered, some tipsy fellow was bawling a love song at the top of his voice. He seemed to be the only thing awake in Key West at this hour. When the song, or his voice, gave out the silence settled heavier than before. A ship's bell, far over the water, began to strike, and we counted five mellow strokes: one-one, one-one, one!

"Half-past two," Tommy whispered, "I wonder what Nell's doing!"

"Dreaming of you, no doubt," I tried to laugh. "Maybe you and she are wrecked on a desert island at this blissful moment."

"I wish we were," he murmured, without looking around. "And you and Sylvia, too!"

"Cut it," I growled. "She's a princess, Tommy, and that puts the kibosh on my dreams."

"Nell's a princess, too," he said gently, "and I still hang on. Tilt up your chin, Jack, and things'll squeeze through for us! We'll ship the old counterfeiter to prison, or kill him, and then——"

"And then," I said bitterly, turning to go below, "Princess Sylvia goes to the arms of some popinjay prince!"

But I had taken only a step when his hand fell on my shoulder like a piece of steel and whirled me around. There was nothing gentle in his voice this time as he sharply commanded:

"Look at me, you damn slacker, and let's see if I'm talking to the man I fought the Boche with!"

I must have appeared rather well indignant with him, for he gave a low, reassured laugh, adding:

"That's better. Now I want to say, once and for all—and I swear it on each of these stars, both for myself and Nell—that if we catch up with Princess Sylvia, and you let her be taken away, I'll punch your face into a jolly good pulp, so help me old Kentucky! Good night!"

"If you're man enough to do it," I yelled after him.

Fine old Tommy! I believe I loved him then better than ever before.