The smuggler's eyes expressed the limits of amazement. He stared at the newcomer. He turned his glance to Aylmer, as if he sought information there. He brought it back and focussed it upon the dripping soutane. He made inarticulate noises of incredulity; he flung up his hands with gestures of bewilderment.

"You arrive—how, reverend father?" he cried. "What have you used? The wings of a bird, the fins of a fish?"

"The eyes of a God-fearing priest," retorted Padre Sigismondi. "I saw signals being flashed from your island. With Emmanuele here," he pointed to the dripping figure which still lay upon the stones, "I was passing your abode of sin on my way to Stromboli. I had, in fact, no choice—I was being blown there. I saw the signals, I say, but read no meaning in them. Some unconfessed wretch needs extreme unction, say I to myself, and steered among the teeth of your reefs. One of our sweeps broke at a critical moment. This cavalier here leaped in to our rescue. I have not properly thanked him yet because I am awaiting explanation of the words I heard as you thrust yourself upon us. Prisoners, did you say? It must be a cataclysm of morality which has made you a gaoler or a judge, my wonderful Luigi."

The smuggler shivered and blenched.

"This man and this woman are in a sense prisoners," he allowed. "They are not on good terms with our other—guests. We have had to restrain their liberties."

Padre Sigismondi regarded him fixedly. The unfortunate Luigi's tongue protruded with nervousness; his cheek muscles twitched. The priest shrugged his shoulders as he turned to Aylmer.

"I arrive unceremoniously," he smiled, "but not inopportunely, it seems. May I have your version of the extraordinary circumstances in which I find the Signora and yourself, Signor?"

Aylmer smiled back at him.

"They are simple enough, father," he answered. "We are prisoners; there is no need for our friend here to beat about the bush. At the instigation of—of a certain enemy of ours, in whose pay the good Luigi finds himself, we were kidnapped from the port of Melilla and brought here. It was our signals you saw. May I add my profound regrets at the misfortune you experienced in answering them?"

"The Church is a boat to the bad, but possibly a gainer in righteousness," said the other. "I may be the means of preventing some irretrievable sin on the part of these islanders. You were being held to ransom, do I understand?"

The dripping figure at his feet stirred and rose weakly to a standing posture. A cackle of laughter came from between the chattering teeth.

"The gaol-bird as gaoler—eh, but that is a rib-rending jest, Luigi. You have imagination, amico, imagination and, it seems, opportunity. You will go far!"

The sailor turned his wrinkled face on the abashed smuggler; his white teeth flashed a prodigious smile. He seemed to find nothing disconcerting in the situation, but desired to show quickness in seizing its points of humor.

"He will certainly go far, my good Emmanuele," agreed Padre Sigismondi, drily. "As far as the penal station on Procida if I am not hugely mistaken, or unless he shows a most improbable repentance. What have we here? Other warders in this private penitentiary?"

Footsteps clattered along the tiny causeway. With a rush, half a dozen figures swept up to them through the moonlight, Landon at their head. This was the answer to Signor Luigi's frantic shouts.

The rush wavered, hesitated, came to a halt. The islanders recognized the grim, aggressive form in the soutane with sharp exclamations of amazement and alarm. Landon, without their experience, felt the impalpable infection of their fear. He, too, halted, staring mistrustfully at the priest and his companions.

He shook Luigi by the elbow.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

The smuggler made a deferential outward movement of his palms.

"It is a visit, an unexpected visit, from our—our vicar," he explained. "It is the Padre Sigi—Sigismondi, I should say."

The padre stepped forward and spoke in crisp, imperturbable tones.

"I am peripatetic confessor to these islands, Signor," he said. "There is a bitter need of six priests to each island, rather than six islands to a priest. It is an abode of wickedness, this. That, perhaps, has not been hidden from you?"

Landon kept a moment's silence. Then he smiled.

"I confess that I have not augmented its morality, in bulk, Signor," he said. "In fact, by adding the two who stand behind you to its population, I have done far otherwise. Instead of being where you find them, they should be under lock and key."

"Why?" demanded the priest, laconically.

"Because they robbed me," answered Landon. "Because, for wicked purposes of their own, they took from me—not gold, but what is beyond the price of gold or buying—my only son."

"You accuse them of—kidnapping?" The good man's voice was coldly incredulous.

Landon made a gesture of assent.

"Of that and of attempted murder. They hired Moorish desperadoes to attack me, to ride me down."

"And you have made of yourself not only prosecutor, but judge, jury, and keeper of their prison?"

"These things happened in Africa, outside civilized jurisdiction. Was I to lack justice when it lay in the hollow of my hand?"

"Are there no consular courts? If not, you cannot bring your private cause to private verdict in the dominions of the King of Italy, however bad his title to the throne."

"Your reverence is a Legitimist?" grinned Landon.

"In every sense of the word, Signor. My sense of legitimacy finds your arguments unsound."

He looked at Claire with an apologetic bow.

"And as a matter of fact, Signora, I have not heard your statement. How does it vary from this gentleman's? Or does it, perhaps, corroborate it?"

She looked at him very steadily.

"The man to whom you have been talking," she said slowly, "is, I think, Signor, the worst man whom God permits to live."

He made a little gesture of protest.

"You have suffered at his hands—is that it? But your sentence is too sweeping a one, is it not? Surely, Signora, surely?"

She shook her head.

"No!" she said determinedly. "Traitor, forger, thief—we know him to be all these. And last, but not least, murderer. A murderer of souls. I do not know if he has taken a fellow creature's life, but for five years he racked into the numbness of despair the soul of my sister, who was his wife."

He made a tiny exclamation of sympathy; he held up his hand as if he put away from him a spectre of evil.

He looked back to Landon.

"You have heard, Signor?" he said.

"I have heard," said Landon, easily. "As a tale it has no originality and therefore little interest for me. I have heard it a hundred times. Your reverence found fault, a moment back, with my self-assumed status of judge. Are you going to borrow the cloak which you do not permit me to wear? You have heard both sides. To what proof can you refer a decision?"

The long, lean figure drew itself up very rigidly.

"I am a sinful man myself, Signor. I make no decisions. But I have been appealed to, as I understand, by those whom I find in your power. I shall not permit your restraint of them to continue. You can refer any grievance you have against them to properly constituted tribunals over there." He lifted his arm and pointed south to where storm and night hid Sicily.

He turned to Luigi.

"Emmanuele and I are, as you see, sodden to the skin. It may reach your great intelligence, by degrees, that we need warmth and refreshment."

The smuggler made an apologetic gesture.

"But certainly, Reverenza. There is in the house a fire. My poor provisions are at your service."

The priest looked towards Claire with another courtly doffing of his hat.

"And you, Signora, and you, Signor, will add to my felicity by sharing both with me?"

She looked at him gravely.

"They have not starved us; we had food a couple of hours ago," she said. "But your company, here and to the mainland, is a boon straight from the hand of God."

He inclined his head in assent.

"I am His servant, Signora," he said. "I thank Him for permitting me to serve Him, in serving you. Shall we make our way to the house? The hour must be close on midnight."

He made a motion towards the path. He looked imperturbably at Landon, who, with Muhammed, still stood astride it.

"You appear to be blocking the lady's way, Signor," he said. "Not intentionally, I dare to hope."

Landon shrugged his shoulders and drew aside.

"On the contrary, your reverence. Not for worlds would I stand between you and refreshment—and sleep."

He looked at Muhammed with a half-sardonic, half-inquiring gaze as he spoke. And there was a faintly emphasized inflection on the last two words.

The Moor looked back at him impassively, and then drew aside with an obsequious droop of the head.

But to Claire and, to a less extent to Aylmer, there was a queer, indefinite sense of something which impended—something which racked them with suspicion in the attitude of those about them. Landon's surrender was too facile; Luigi's deference too pliant; Muhammed's apathetic eyes were never less convincing of guilelessness. When they reached the cottage, and stood with Padre Sigismondi before the blaze in the great open hearth and watched the quick preparations which were being made to improvise a meal, the unreality of their surroundings seemed to grow in significance. No one interfered with them; no one even noticed them. Luigi set the table; Muhammed busied himself with the coffee-pot; Landon held the father's dripping garments to the blaze while their owner assumed a sailor's trousers and jersey in an adjoining room. It was too incredible, this sudden turning of tables. They looked at each other doubtfully.

Their speculations received a sudden interruption. The door opened to admit Miller.

He was half dressed. He blinked—it was apparent that he and sleep had parted company a short half minute before.

"I heard noises," he said, and then his glance fell upon the two who stood near the fireplace, side by side. His usual phlegm seemed to desert him. He gave an exclamation.

"You!" he cried. "You!"

He wheeled towards Landon.

"Will you explain?" he cried harshly. "What is happening?"

"I entertain guests—a small, but select, family party," grinned Landon.

The gray man stared at him with still unappeased surprise. Then, suddenly, his face cleared. He looked at Claire; he looked on beyond her to Aylmer.

"You have met his terms? You see the hopelessness of it all; you have been wise?"

His voice was smooth, now, and had lost its harsh tones of amazement. He purred his approbation.

Aylmer laughed.

"We have been wise, my dear Miller," he agreed. He laughed again as Padre Sigismondi briskly entered the room. He had the aspect of an ascetic but experienced mariner in his new garb. He bowed to Miller courteously but inquiringly. The inquiry, it was to be noticed, was directed in part towards Aylmer and his companion.

But Aylmer offered no introduction. He drew forward a chair, and placed it in front of the fire.

"A good roasting after your immersion? Let me prescribe that," he said.

The priest looked at him and then gave a cry of commiseration.

"But you yourself, Signor—you remain in your sodden clothes?"

"For a very simple reason, father," said Aylmer, smiling. "I was taken prisoner, but not my luggage. I stand up in my belongings."

The house began to resound with the recriminations which the priest addressed to Luigi. Why had he not provided the cavalier with a suitable change of raiment while his own clothes dried? Why had he not done this; why had he not done that?

The smuggler ran to and fro distractedly. A jersey came from one press. A shirt from another. A cupboard supplied trousers; a deplorable collar which had had no recent acquaintance with a laundry was even offered and declined. Aylmer retired into the adjoining room, and Landon, on his return, with imperturbable aplomb received and began to dry the wet clothes he had taken off. Miller reviewed these proceedings with unqualified amazement. Offered no key to the position, he proceeded to probe for one.

"Your reverence has voyaged far?" he hazarded.

"More miles than I care to remember, Signor," said the other, courteously. "But ever, alas, in a circle. My peregrinations have been bounded, ever since my ordination, by Naples on the north and Palermo or Messina in the south. I see much earth and sky and water, especially the latter, but I add nothing to geography. I am amphibious, that is all."

His "ordination"? The gleam of discovery woke in Miller's eyes. A priest, was it? But the presence of Aylmer and Miss Van Arlen—how was that to be explained? And how far had the newcomer gauged the situation.

"Your reverence finds in us unexpected additions to your flock," he said. "The population of Salicudi has increased since you last visited it."

"To my very natural satisfaction," said Sigismondi, imperturbably. He looked at the steaming bowl of polenta and the coffee-pot which Luigi had set upon the table. Emmanuele came in, wrapped in a sheepskin coat and grinning at the food expectantly. His master greeted him with a nod. "It appears that we are to feast and feast alone, my son," he said. "These friends of ours insist on having dined two hours ago. May the Blessed bless to us this refreshment."

He seated himself and began to eat slowly, but with relish.

"Heat is a great tonic," he remarked reflectively. "The contents of this bowl and, above all, of this admirable coffee-pot, will erase the remembrance of the discomforts of the night. And then sleep, but not too much of it. Luigi, my friend, we must be off at dawn."

The smuggler's eyebrows rose into arcs.

"How, Reverence?" he exclaimed. "At dawn, and whither, if you please?"

"By way of Celsa, where an infant awaits baptism—and my friends, I dare to hope, will excuse the short delay—to Messina. Where else, my good Luigi? That surely is the place where your guests can most conveniently adjust their misunderstandings."

The smuggler shrugged his shoulders.

"I am at your service, father," he said, and looked vacantly at the opposite wall. But the tail of his eye, Aylmer noted, was on Landon. Was there a message, or inquiry, in it?

"All of us," said Landon, smoothly, "must find your proposition a very practical one. May I hasten to add my approval of it?"

He looked smilingly at Aylmer, at Claire, lastly at Muhammed. The Moor—was it Aylmer's fancy?—answered with a tiny nod. There was sarcasm in this glance of Landon's; there was menace; there was—so Aylmer told himself—malignant triumph.

Padre Sigismondi nodded absently. He presented his coffee-cup to the Moor to be refilled, and as the brown liquid ran from the spout, watched it with a slow, stolid abstraction. His mental alertness seemed to be relaxing with physical refreshment. He offered no further remarks; he plied his spoon upon the polenta slowly, and yet more slowly.

Suddenly Emmanuele, the sailor, dropped his cup in the act of taking a more than usually copious draught. He looked stupidly at the coarse crockery as it broke upon the floor.

Sigismondi shook a finger at him, a finger which, somehow, he seemed to have under no proper command. "Careless one!" he mumbled. "Careless one! Where are your manners?" And then, suddenly, as if he heaved back a weight, he rose unsteadily to his feet. He threatened Luigi with his clenched fist.

"Traitorous dog!" he cried, and fell senseless to the floor.

His companion stared at him stupidly, plunged forward as if to bring him aid, and then fell, too, at his feet. The pair lay where they had fallen, unmoving.

At the back of the room Landon broke out into pleasant laughter.

Aylmer darted forward and bent to shake Sigismondi fiercely by the shoulder. Claire cried to him warningly.

Too late!

Landon and Luigi had flung themselves upon him from behind. Muhammed had dropped a looped cord across his shoulders. There was a moment's confusion—the corner of the table smashed under a chance blow—and then stillness. Lashed with cords into rigidity, Aylmer lay upon the planks, and Landon, gazing down, spat upon his upturned face.

"You clever fool!" he derided. "To think to have cornered me—me!"

He looked rapidly at his watch and turned to Luigi.

"It is five hours to dawn," he said. "Where is it we are to take them? There is no possibility for delay?"

The smuggler threw out his hands with an air of fatalism.

"The headquarters of the Society—there is no other place!" he said. "With this wind, four hours or less will see us there. They will charge a commission; you will have to bear with that. But we shall have perfect privacy and, if you will, perfected means of dealing with this man's obstinacy. And there will be adepts, who will give you their assistance for the pleasure of the thing."

Landon nodded.

"Do you hear, my friend, do you hear?" he cried, thrusting his foot against Aylmer's cheek. "You have wriggled well in my coils—I grant you that. You have twisted and, for the moment, escape seemed open—wide open—before you. But against me? No one prevails there, no one!"

"One may—yet."

The voice was Claire's. Landon wheeled towards her.

"That shows a very determined optimism, sister-in-law," he said. "And who, if the knowledge is not privileged?"

"God," she said quietly, and met his eyes unflinchingly.