All that night the little motor boat chugged on. She was small for so long a sea-passage, but the preacher knew her ways well. Many a journey had he taken to the Caymans and other Jamaican possessions in the interests of his faith.

In the night-watches, Stuart grew to have a strong respect for him, for the preacher was one in whom the missionary spirit burned strongly, and he was as sincere as he was simple. Each of the three on board took turns to sleep, leaving two to manage the boat. Stuart got a double dose of sleep, for the preacher, seeing that the boy was tired, ran the craft alone during the second part of his watch.

Dawn found them in the Windward Passage, with the Mole of St. Nicholas on the starboard bow. They slowed down for a wash and a bite of breakfast, and then the preacher, with a manner which showed it to be habitual, offered a morning prayer.

The Mole St. Nicholas, at its southern end, has some small settlements, but Stuart felt sure that it could not be here that he was to land. They cruised along the shore a while, and, on an isolated point, saw an old half-ruined jetty, with four figures standing there. As the boat drew nearer, Stuart recognized them as Manuel Polliovo, Cesar Leborge and two Cacos guerillas, armed with rifles and machetes.

"Are you afraid to follow me?" queried Stuart to the negro who had driven the automobile.

"'Fraid of dem Haiti niggers? No, Sah. I'm a Jamaican!"

This pride of race among certain negroes—not always rightly valued among the whites—had struck Stuart before. Indeed, he had done a special article on the subject during the voyage on the steamer.

Reaching the wharf, Stuart sprang ashore. The Jamaican at once sought to follow him, but the two Cacos tribesmen stepped forward with uplifted machetes. The odds were too great and Stuart's ally fell back.

"It is very kind of you to come and pay us a visit!" mocked Manuel, as Stuart stepped upon the wharf. "We prefer, however, to have you alone. We do not know your guests."

"You know me, then?"

"I knew the ragged horse-boy to be Stuart Garfield, all the way on the road to Millot and the Citadel," the Cuban purred. "I cannot congratulate you on your cleverness. The disguise was very poor."

Stuart thrust forward his chin aggressively, but no retort came to mind.

"I missed you, on the return journey," Manuel continued.

"Yes," the boy answered. "I came down another way."

"Perhaps you borrowed a pair of wings from the Englishman?"

Stuart made no reply.

But this ironic fencing was not to Leborge's taste. He broke in, abruptly,

"You spy on us once, Yes! You spy on us again, Yes! You spy no more, No!"

He made a rough gesture, at which one of the Cacos dashed upon the boy, pinned his arms to his sides and harshly, but deftly, tied him securely with a rope. This done, the Haitian took the boy's small revolver from his pocket and cast it contemptuously on the ground.

"The white carries a pistol, Yes! But he does not even know how to shoot it!"

The phrase irritated Stuart, but he had sense enough to keep still. As a matter of fact, he was a fairly good shot, but, with four to one against him, any attempt at violence would be useless. Besides, Stuart had not lost heart. He had landed, in the very teeth of his foes, confident that Fergus would never have directed him to go to the Mole St. Nicholas, unless the editor had cause. The boy's only cue was to await developments.

At this juncture, the Jamaican preacher, with a good deal of courage, as well as dignity, rose in the boat. He thrust aside, as unimportant, the machete of the Caco who threatened him, and the assumption of authority took the guerilla aback. Quietly, and with perfect coolness, he walked up to the Haitian general. A little to Stuart's surprise, he spoke the Haitian dialect perfectly.

"You're goin' to untie de ropes 'round dat boy, Yes!" he declared, "an' if you're wise, you do it quick. De Good Book say—'Dose who slay by de sword, shall be slain by de sword, demselbes,' Yes! I tell you, dose dat ties oders up, is goin' to be tied up demselbes, Yes!"

"What are you doin' here?" demanded Leborge, with an oath.

"I's a minister ob de gospel," said the preacher, standing his ground without a quaver, in face of the threatening aspect of the giant Haitian, "an' I tell you"—he pointed a finger accusingly—"dat, for ebery oath you make hyar in de face ob de sun, you is goin' to pay, an' pay heabily, before dat sun go down!

"You's a big nigger," the preacher went on, his voice taking the high drone of prophetic utterance, "an' you's all cobered wit' gol' lace. De Good Book say—'Hab no respec' for dem dat wears fine apparel.' No! 'Deir garments shall be mof-eaten, deir gol' an' silver shall be cankered, an' de worm'—hear, you nigger!—'de worm, shall hab 'em'!"

Leborge, superstitious like all the Haitian negroes, cowered before the preacher who advanced on him with shaking finger.

But Manuel was of another stripe.

He strode forward, put a lean but sinewy hand on the preacher's shoulder and twisted him round, with a gesture as though he would hurl him into the water, when there came a sharp,

"Spat!"

The Cuban's hat leaped from his head and fluttered slowly to the ground, a bullet-hole through the crown.

Manuel stared at it, his jaw dropping.

"White man——" the preacher began.

The Cuban took no heed. The shot, he figured, could have come from no one but the negro in the boat, and he wheeled on him, flashing his revolver. As he turned to the sea, however, he saw a motor boat coming at terrific speed into the harbor. He took one glance at it.

"We've got to get rid of the boy before he comes!" he cried.

Leborge, with a wide grin, gave a nod of approval, and Manuel's gun came slowly to the shoulder, for cat-like, he wanted to torture the boy before he fired.

Quicker than his grave manner would have seemed to forecast, the preacher stepped fairly between the Cuban and his victim.

"De Good Book say——" he began, but Manuel gave him a push. There was a slight struggle and a flash.

The preacher fell.

Manuel turned on Stuart, who had tried to catch the falling man, forgetting for the instant that his hands were tied. He stumbled, and the pistol centered on his heart.

Came another,

"Spat!"

A shrill scream rang out. Manuel's gun fell to the ground, suddenly reddened with blood. The Cuban's hand had been shot through.

Clumsily kneeling, Stuart put his ear to the wounded man's heart. It was beating strongly. The bullet seemed to have struck the collar bone and glanced off, stunning the nerves, but not doing serious injury.

For a moment, the four men stood dazed.

Whence came these bullets that made no sound? Could the Englishman be shooting? They stared out to sea.

The "chug-chug" of the motor boat was deafening, now. It stopped, suddenly, and, standing in the bow, the figure of Cecil could be plainly seen. He held no gun in his hand, however.

Never was the Englishman's quiet power more strongly shown than in the fact that, in this tense moment, the conspirators waited till he landed. Leborge shuffled his feet uneasily. Manuel, his face twisted with pain, and holding his wounded arm, glared at his fellow-conspirator, undauntedly.

"My friend," said Cecil to him, calmly, "I have many times instructed you that nothing is to be done until I give the word."

The Cuban cursed, but made no other answer.

"As for you," the Englishman continued, turning to Leborge, "I have told you before that the time to quarrel about the sharing of the spoils was after the spoils were won. Why have you posted men to murder Manuel and me, in the granadilla wood, between here and Cap Haitien?"

The giant would have liked to lie, but Cecil's determined gaze was full on him, and he flinched beneath it, as a wild beast flinches before its tamer.

"If you had waited for me," the calm voice went on, "I might have helped you to escape, but now——"

He raised his hat and passed his hand over his hair, as though the sun had given him a headache.

At the same moment, as though this gesture had been a signal, from the low bushes a hundred yards away burst a squad of a dozen men, rifles at the "ready," in the uniform of American marines.

Manuel and Leborge cast wild glances around, seeking some place to flee, but there was none. They were cut off.

"Quick, Cecil!" they cried, together. And Leborge added, "Your boat! She is fast!"

"Not as fast as a rifle bullet," was the quiet answer.

At the double the Marines came over the scrubby ground, and, running beside the officer in command was a figure that Stuart recognized—his father!

The officer of the Marines came up.

"Seize them!" he said briefly.

The boys in blue disarmed and bound the four, one of the Marines freeing Stuart's arms the while. The second he was free, Stuart sprang forward and grasped his father's hand with a squeeze that made the older man wince.

"Father!" he cried. "It's really you!"

The American official clapped the boy on the shoulder with praise and a look of pride.

"Reckon that high-powered air rifle came in handy, eh?" he answered.

"Was it you, Father, who did the shooting?"

"No, not me. Wish I could shoot like that! We brought along the crack sharp-shooter of the camp."

One of the Marines looked up and grinned.

"This chap," the official continued, "could hit the hind leg of a fly that's scratching himself on a post fifty yards away!"

Then, to Stuart's enormous surprise, he turned to the prisoners with an air of authority.

"In the name of the United States," he said, "you are arrested. You, Cesar Leborge, for having plotted against American authority in Haiti, while holding rank in the Haitian Army; also for having accepted a bribe from other Haitian officials for betraying your fellow-conspirator; also for having given money and issued orders to a band of Cacos to post themselves in ambush with the purpose and intent of murdering Haitian and American citizens.

"You, Manuel Polliovo," he continued, turning to the second prisoner, "are arrested on a Cuban warrant for the murder of one Gonzales Elivo, a guard at the prison from which you escaped two years ago; also upon a charge of assault and attempted murder against this negro minister, for which there are several witnesses present; also on a charge of attempted murder of Stuart Garfield, son of an American citizen; also on a Haitian warrant for conspiring against the peace of the Republic."

Stuart stood with wide-open eyes, watching the dÉnouement. He stepped back, and waited to see what would be said to Cecil, who, so far, had remained motionless.

The Marines, at a word from their officer, turned to go, taking the prisoners with them.

"And Cecil, Father?" the boy asked, in a low voice.

"Mr. Guy Cecil, my son," replied the American official, "is my very good friend, as well as yours, and the very good friend of the United States. No man knows more of the inner workings of affairs in the West Indies, and he has the confidence of his Government.

"It was through him that I was first advised of this plot to seize the northern peninsula of Haiti, from the Citadel of La FerriÈre to the Mole St. Nicholas, to make of this stretch a small republic as was done at Panama, and to sell the Mole St. Nicholas, as a naval base, to a certain European power which is seeking to regain its lost prestige.

"It was a pretty plot, and your investigations, my boy, will help to bring the criminals to judgment.

"Also, I think, Mr. Cecil will release you from your promise not to tell the secret, and you can write your story to the press. It will be a scoop! Only——" he smiled—"don't say too much about the crimes of the arch-conspirator, Guy Cecil!"

"Then he's not a conspirator, at all!" cried Stuart, half-sorry and half-glad.

"Rather, an ally," his father answered, "an ally with me, just as his government is in alliance with our government, an alliance among the English-speaking peoples to keep the peace of the world."

THE END

[Transcriber's Note: Several typographical errors in the original edition have been corrected. The following sentences are as they originally appeared, with corrections noted in brackets.]

Chapter I

"But, it is you, Yes!" he cried, using the Haitian idom [idiom] with its perpetual recurrence of "Yes" and "No," and went on, "and where is Monsieur your father?"

Chapter II

To the CafÊ [CafÉ] de l'OpÉra. Go down the street and keep a few steps in front."

Manuel turned into the CafÊ [CafÉ] de l'OpÉra, a tumble-down frame shack with a corrugated iron roof, to order a cooling drink and to puzzle out this utterly baffling mystery.

The Cacos may be described as Haitian patriots or revolutionists, devotees of serpent and voodoo worship, loosely organized into a secret guerille [guerilla] army.

Chapter V

["]A privateer on the Caribbean and the Spanish Main, in those days, was a man who had sufficient money or sufficient reputation to secure a ship and a crew with which to wage war against the enemies of his country.

Chapter VI

["]What happens? I can tell you what happens in this province of Oriente.

Chapter VII

It had not occured [occurred] to him that the consular official would not be as excited as himself. He spluttered exclamations.

Chapter VIII

The greater part of the island seemed, to the boy, uttterly [utterly] unlike any place he had seen in the tropics.

Chapter IX

Spech [Speech] again became impossible.

Chapter X

There are many more little houses and thatched huts tucked into corner [corners] of the ruins than appear at first sight, and a hotel has been built for the tourists who visit the strange spot.