The armed strangers were a swarthy, black-browed pair, clad in sleeveless cotton under-shirts and ragged cotton trousers of no particular hue. Both wore the floppy, broadbrimmed straw hats common in the tropics, both were barefoot and carried canvas cartridge belts slung over their left shoulders. A more villainous pair could not be found anywhere.

“Stick ’em up!” commanded the taller of the two.

Bill dropped his suitcase and defiantly thrust his hands into the pockets of his breeches.

“We’re not armed,” he said steadily, and ignoring the man’s angry growl, turned to his father. “If this is a sample of the famous hospitality you were talking about, Dad, a little of it is plenty!”

“Search ’em and search ’em good, Diego!” shouted the leader. “If they make a move ter pull a rod, I’ll drill ’em.”

“But, I say—— Hold on!” Mr. Bolton exclaimed indignantly as Diego relieved him of his watch and wallet.

“Hold up, you mean,” remarked Bill grimly. “A sweet gang of robbers we’ve fallen into if the rest of them on this key are anything like these two thugs.”

“Shut yer mouth, or it’ll be the worse fer youse!” snapped the highwayman. “Mebbe yer get dese tings back when yer goes up ter de big house, an’ mebbe yer don’t. Dat’s none o’ my business. It’s up ter de boss.”

“I’ll bet he’s a gentleman of the old school,” mocked Bill. “Tell me, Bozo, what do they call this place? Who is the hospitable owner?”

“Ain’t none o’ yer business,” snarled the man. “Gimme more o’ yer lip, an’ I’ll give yer de butt of dis rifle between de eyes. Pick up dem bags and march. Straight down de road—dat’s de way.”

Forced to obey, the Boltons took up their suitcases again and continued along the dusty highway, but this time accompanied by an armed rear guard.

“We’re arriving in style, anyway, with an armed guard,” Bill muttered to his father. “What sort of a dump do you suppose we’ve crashed into?”

Mr. Bolton, whose face was crimson with annoyance, shot a glance of reproof at the tall, broad-shouldered young fellow at his side.

“Whatever it is, you’ll only make things worse by trying to heckle these people. The men behind are quite evidently underlings. When we meet this boss they speak of, it will be time enough to demand an explanation. Why the owner of this place should treat strangers in this cavalier manner is beyond me, I confess.”

“If you ask me, Dad, I believe we are walking into a mess that has last night’s seance at sea beat forty ways to Sunday.”

“I hope you are wrong,” his father answered stiffly. “But if Diego and his loud-voiced friend aren’t criminals they should be, with faces like theirs. We certainly seem to have been blown out of the frying pan straight into the fire.”

Quarter of an hour’s walk brought them to the first of the buildings they had sighted from the hillside. Closer inspection proved it to be a long, one-storied affair with a flat roof and whitewashed stucco walls. It looked hot and stuffy, and the Boltons noted that the small windows set high up were barred with rusty iron.

“Looks like a Mexican jail to me,” declared Bill.

“I’ve never seen one,” his father replied. Mr. Bolton was in no state, physically or mentally, for facetious conversation.

“Neither have I, except in the movies—”

“An’ dis is where we stops. In yer goes!”

Diego’s partner appeared at Bill’s elbow and motioned toward the building with the muzzle of his gun. Diego, who so far had made no observation of his own, produced a key. The heavy door swung inward and the Boltons were rudely forced to enter.

They came into a fair-sized room, sparsely furnished with a chair and a few wooden benches. As they passed into a long corridor lined with cells, Diego’s pal relieved them of their suitcases, while Diego unlocked a door and motioned with his rifle for father and son to step into the cell.

“This is an outrage!” exploded Mr. Bolton.

Without a word, Diego slammed and locked the door behind them.

Bill, who feared that a show of resistance might cause the men to separate him from his father, cut in upon his parent’s fury.

“Hey, you, Diego!” he called.

Diego stopped and turned round.

“Speak English?” Bill pressed his face against the bars and stared at the man, who exhibited no sign that he understood.

“My Naval Academy Spanish won’t pass muster, so I reckon it must be English,” continued Bill ruefully. “Anyway, I’ll take a chance. Look here, Diego. Bring my father and me something to drink—something cool and wet—with ice in it if you can—and I’ll make it all right with you when the boss learns who we are and lets us go. If I’m talking too fast for you to follow, I’ll say it all over again. How about it, my lad, do you get me?”

A sour grin spread over Diego’s none too prepossessing visage.

“Youse an’ yer ole man go blow yer tops!” he replied in the best Bowery argot. “Whadda yer take dis joint for—de Waldorf?”

He spat his contempt on the filthy floor and passed out of sight.

“You never can tell when you’ll run into home-folks,” said Bill with a smile at Mr. Bolton.

Bill’s father looked hot and desperately weary. He spoke in a dejected tone. “I admire your cheerfulness, son, in this trying position. But if you will desist from buffooning the situation, it would be a relief to me. Of course, I realize our arrest is a mistake. And the owner of this island will surely make amends as soon as I tell him who we are. In missing that conference in Miami last night, my entire business interests were jeopardized. If I can’t get there before those men leave for the North, you and I, boy, are liable to suffer a heavy financial loss.”

Bill tossed his jacket on the dirty floor and sat down with his back to the wall. “Thanks, Dad—but I guess you know I’m not playing for admiration. I realize the seriousness of this mess we’re in just as fully as you do. And one thing I do believe: we’re going to have to shell out plenty of cash in a very little while, if you let the ‘boss’ over at the big house know you’re Bolton of the Bolton Sugar Corporation!”

His father looked at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

“I believe,” went on Bill, “that this is going to be a hold-up game from start to finish. If we haven’t dropped into the winter hangout of some Chicago beer baron or New York racketeer, I’m a ground hog!”

“Mmm—ransom, you mean?”

“I do. I shouldn’t be surprised at anything after meeting Diego and his bullying pal. Any man who would hire a couple of gunmen like those fellows is sure to be a bad egg. And we’re getting a taste of his generous hospitality right now. Of course, I don’t know what his particular game is, but it’s bound to be something pretty low. When he finds out you’re a power in the business world, he’s sure to bleed you.”

“I dare say you’re right,” his father returned gloomily. “I’ll have to keep my identity hidden. By thunder!” he slapped his knee in vexation. “The man knows now, exactly who I am. Those villains took my wallet! My cards and some valuable papers were in it, to say nothing of the currency I carried, though he can have that and welcome.”

“Tough luck, Dad—-I never thought of that. Now we are in for it. Ugh! I wish those birds would bring us a drink. My mouth hurts, it’s so dry.”

“Filthy place, this—what with the stench and the heat—One of these days I’ll make it even hotter for the man who is accountable for this!”

“Sh!” cautioned Bill. “Here they come!”

Diego and the other man came into sight between the bars. Diego unlocked the cell door.

“On yer way!” he barked. “De big boss wants ter look youse over.”

“Anything’s better than this hole,” observed Mr. Bolton, and picking up his coat he preceded Bill out of the cell.

“Mebbe—and mebbe not,” said Diego’s partner, and they both chuckled hoarsely.

“How about some water to drink?” inquired Bill.

“Do I look like a soda fountain? Tell yer troubles to de boss. Servin’ drinks ain’t my job.”

The sun’s heat was terrific out on the road, and the glare was blinding. All wind from the sea was cut off by the valley, and the very trees seemed to shimmer under the broiling rays.

They passed several other buildings which looked like barracks and warehouses, but saw no people. If there were any, they remained indoors.

“This is a sweet place to pick for a winter home,” gasped Bill, mopping his streaming forehead. “The thug who runs things here must be a darned cold-blooded guy.”

“Very probably,” returned Mr. Bolton, “but the place, though hot, has its advantages, if he is what we surmise. It is quite out of the world, and except from the air, no one would guess that the island is inhabited.”

“Home at last,” remarked Bill after a few minutes, as they turned up the incline toward the white house on the knoll. “Thank heaven there’s a bit of a breeze up here. Whew! This bird certainly lives in style!”

The road swept up through beautifully kept flower gardens to the front of the house, which appeared to be a really huge mansion. Wide verandas surrounded the rambling building on three sides, and the cream stucco walls contrasted pleasingly with the dark green of its tile roof. Money had been spent here with a lavish hand. The place looked cool and inviting. The Boltons wondered what it would hold for them.

They were led into a spacious hall, panelled in mahogany. Here again, the Persian rugs scattered over the polished floor, the fine wood and carving of the furniture, and a number of excellent paintings on the walls, all bespoke the hand of wealth.

Bidding his prisoners remain where they were, Diego crossed the hall and knocked at a closed door.

“Come in,” called a man’s voice, and Diego disappeared into the room, closing the door behind him.

Bill started to make some comment on their surroundings to his father, but their other guard growled at him to keep quiet. Then Diego reappeared and beckoned them into the room.

This large apartment was handsomely furnished in the manner of a business office. Behind a huge, flat-topped desk sat a fat young man dressed in immaculate white linens. Blue-black hair and an olive complexion bespoke his Latin origin. Two other young men, clad also in white, and bearing a strong resemblance to the man at the desk, lounged in wicker arm chairs. All were smoking long black cigars.

“And what, may I ask, is the reason for this outrage?” began Mr. Bolton, walking up to the desk. “Is it your custom to have visitors to this island treated like criminals and thrown into jail?”

“It is,” the fat man remarked blandly, without removing the cigar from his lips.

Bill’s father was taken aback by this unadulterated candor, but neither by manner nor change of tone did he betray his surprise. “How much do you want to let us go?”

The man at the desk knocked the ash from his cigar.

“Why, it’s not a question of money at the present moment, Mr. Bolton. That will undoubtedly come later. Just now, my brothers and I have need of you in other ways.”

“You mean that we are to be kept here as your prisoners?”

“You have guessed the secret, Mr. Bolton. And my advice to you and to your son is to do exactly as you are told, without argument or question. Strangers on Shell Island have always found that to disobey commands here is a particularly unhealthy pastime. Obey on the jump—is our slogan. I hope for your sakes that neither of you forgets it.” He smiled at them affably and puffed on his cigar.

Mr. Bolton was about to speak his mind when Bill caught his arm. “Stow it, Dad,” he said. “That lad has us just where he wants us. I’d like to say what I think, too,—but what’s the use?”

Their host waved his hand and their guards led the Boltons out of the house.

Once on the road, tramping back toward the settlement below, Mr. Bolton passed his arm through Bill’s.

“Your Naval Academy training has put a head on your shoulders, son,” he said affectionately. “You have developed better control of your temper under stress than I have. I’m glad you stopped me. Ordinarily a man of my position in the world is in the habit of speaking his mind when provoked.”

Bill nodded. “One of these days,” he said grimly, “I’m going to get that fat slob in there—and when I do, there won’t be enough left of him for the state to burn. What’s his game? Have you any idea?”

Mr. Bolton shook his head. “Not the slightest glimmer. It doesn’t appear to be a case of ransom—or at least, not just yet. Whatever he is up to is obviously illegal. But we’ll probably learn about it before long. The man is an educated criminal. His actions prove it. Our position is certainly serious—very serious.”

“I vote we make a stab at getting out of that cell tonight,” suggested Bill. “If I can get hold of our bus or one of the other amphibians, we’ll get clear of Shell Island in short order.”

“We’ll spend the day thinking up a plan of operations,” agreed his father.

As they came into the settlement, Diego tapped Bill on the shoulder. “Come along with me, guy,” he ordered. “Not you—” he snarled at Mr. Bolton as he started to turn out of the road with his son. “Back to the lockup for yours!”

“Good bye, Dad, and good luck,” Bill called as Diego’s partner herded his father down the road.

“Good luck, and keep a brave heart,” answered Mr. Bolton.

He called out something else, but Bill could not catch the words, for Diego had him by the arm and forced him through the doorway of the barracks before which they had been standing.

He found himself in a large room where thirty or forty men quite as villainous-looking as his guard were lounging about, smoking, sleeping or playing cards. Diego hurried him through this apartment, and down a bare hallway to the open door of a small room. Bill saw that except for an unpainted table and a chair of the kitchen variety, the place was empty of furniture. Over the chair a coarse cotton shirt and a pair of cotton trousers were draped. Leg-irons and a pair of handcuffs lay on the table.

“Strip!” Diego pointed to the chair. “Them’s your clothes, guy. Get into ’em.”

“How about wearing my own?” Bill was fast losing his temper. Only the rifle which Diego held pointed in his direction prevented him from sending a right hand jab to the point of the thug’s chin and taking his chance with the others in the room beyond.

“Nuttin’ doin’, bo—” snarled Diego. “Dem’s de boss’s orders. Make it snappy. We gotta get out o’ here right away an’ I want to pin de jewelry on yer.”

“Where are we going?”

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere—but you are—” He grinned evilly at the lad—“youse is goin’ ter be took fer a ride.”