While the boys had been relating the story of their astonishing experience, Sam had been talking with Jules and other members of the village. Now, as some of the women approached bearing trays of food for the strangers, he rose and, accompanied by Jules, walked over to the hut where the boys and the others were seated.

“Ah been havin’ a extended conversationin’ with Mr. Jules,” the Bahaman announced, in his odd stilted manner which invariably amused the boys, “an’ Ah’s fo’med the opinion that th’ info’mation he’s imparted is mos’ highly important an’ wo’thy o’ consideration, Chief.”

“Yes, well, what is it, Sam?” inquired Mr. Pauling as he helped himself to the smoking viands.

But at Sam’s first words Mr. Pauling, and even the famished Rawlins, forgot all about their hunger and the appetizing food before them, for the Bahaman’s story was to the effect that Jules and his fellow French West Indians were just as keen on getting the “reds” as were Mr. Pauling and his party. According to Jules’ tale, a number of their friends and members of their families had settled on Trade Wind Cay and had been living a peaceful happy life, raising goats, fishing and cultivating tiny garden plots, when a party of white men had arrived and without warning or reason had butchered the West Indians and burned their homes, exactly as Smernoff had described when questioned in New York.

It was not this story of cold-blooded massacre which was of such intense interest to the Americans, but the Fact that Jules calmly informed them that he not only knew where the “devil boat” was hidden, but that he could actually lead them to the cave where the murderers lived.

“Phew!” whistled Rawlins. “I’ll say you tumbled into the right camp, boys! So old Frenchy here’s into their hangout! If that isn’t the all-firedest piece of luck! Lead us to ’em, old sport, lead us to ’em!”

“By Jove! if it’s true everything is coming our way,” declared Mr. Pauling, “but let’s be absolutely sure first. Ask him how he knows his friends were killed, Sam. And why he has not complained to the authorities and demanded justice. Ask him why, if it is true and he knows where these men live, he has not tried to avenge his friends’ death. Ask him what they look like, tell him to describe some of them and the ‘devil boat’ as he calls it.”

Sam turned and began talking to Jules and the others in patois.

“Well, true or not I’m going to have grub,” declared Rawlins. “I don’t eat with my ears, though; I’m almost sorry I can’t, I’m that hungry.”

For several minutes the negroes chattered and gesticulated, their voices often rising excitedly and vehemently. Then, at last, Sam seemed to be satisfied and addressing Mr. Pauling explained that Jules said that two men had escaped from the Cay. They had been fishing and when returning, saw the massacre and realizing resistance was hopeless got away from the place in their boats unseen. He then went on to state that Jules had complained to the Dominican authorities, but had been laughed at; strange negro squatters—in the minds of the Dominicans—were of too little consequence to bother with and had no legal standing; and moreover, Trade Wind Cay did not belong to Santo Domingo. In fact, it was a port of No Man’s Land claimed by Haiti, Santo Domingo, the Dutch and a British corporation and its real ownership had never been settled. Jules and his followers had never avenged their friends merely because they feared to injure any white man knowing that summary arrest, a farcical trial and death would follow and so, as the next best thing, they had worked spells, had placed Obeah and had danced Voodoo in the vain hope of bringing disaster on their enemies. Indeed, Jules declared that their dance of that night had been for this purpose and that when the boys had first arrived the negroes had felt sure that their heathen gods had delivered their enemies into their hands, but that the “devil box” had spoken in English and they knew their enemies used another tongue.

Jules’ description of the submarine was too accurate to leave room for doubt that he had seen it and the boys, at least, were convinced that he had seen the “reds” when Sam repeated Jules’ description of the red-bearded giant, the dark man with the earrings, the thin fellow with the Kaiser-like mustache, and several others.

“I’ll say he’s got a line on ’em, all right!” declared Rawlins, as Sam finished his translation of Jules’ description and statements, “and by glory! I’d hate to be in their shoes if these buckos ever get their hands on ’em. Say, did you notice that one of the bunch he described would be Smernoff to a ‘T.’ Wonder if any of ’em recognized him?”

“By Jove!” ejaculated Mr. Pauling. “I hope not, I’d forgotten he was one of the murderers. If they see him and recognize him we’ll be looked upon as spies and enemies. Better run down and warn him, Rawlins. He’s in the boat, asleep probably. Tell him to keep his face hidden or to daub it with mud; or anything and tell the quartermaster to see that he does it.”

Rising slowly and stretching himself as if nothing unusual had occurred, Rawlins strolled off towards; the landing place while Mr. Pauling kept Jules and his friends busy with questions and suggesting plans by which they could aid the Americans.

When the negroes discovered that Mr. Pauling and his friends were looking for the murderers and would make them prisoners if found, they were highly delighted, and Jules assented instantly to guiding the Americans to the cave and the submarine and offered to bring a number of his men along to help.

They were still discussing these plans and Rawlins had almost reached the edge of the clearing when a shot rang out, there was a savage yell, and the next moment Smernoff appeared at the edge of the trees, waving a pistol in his hand and backing away as if from an unseen assailant.

The next instant, he leveled his pistol, there was a flash, another report and then, before the wondering onlookers could move, before they could utter a cry, a figure hurled itself from behind a tree. There was a flash of descending steel, a dull thud, and the Russian plunged forward on the ground. Standing over him, whirling his bloodstained machete about his head and yelling in fiendish glee was a huge gaunt negro.

With two bounds Rawlins was upon the man from behind; before another blow could fall he had pinioned his arms in a vise-like grip and as the others raced towards the scene of the tragedy Rawlins struggled and strained to wrest the deadly machete from the negro’s grasp.

Mr. Pauling was the first to reach Smernoff’s side. That the fellow was mortally wounded was evident at a glance. Across neck and shoulder extended a deep, gaping gash that had almost severed the head, but the man was still breathing and Mr. Pauling bent over him.

Suddenly the Russian’s piglike eyes opened and into them flashed a look of such malignant, unspeakable hatred that Mr. Pauling drew back. As he did so, the gasping, dying man hissed a curse between his blood-covered lips, and with a last superhuman effort drew up his arm, aimed the pistol at Mr. Pauling’s head and pulling the trigger dropped back dead. So close to Mr. Pauling’s face was the weapon that the blast of blazing powder singed his hair and filled his eyes with acrid, smarting smoke and burnt powder and with a hoarse, choking cry he reeled backward. But before the horror-stricken boys could cry out he was upon his feet, wiping his eyes, coughing, shaken, but unhurt. Death had missed him by the fraction of an inch, by a split second. Smernoff had waited a thousandth of a second too long to wreak his treachery; death had robbed him of his vengeance; life had flown from him at the very instant he had pressed the trigger and he had paid his debt without adding another to his long list of crimes.

It had all happened in the twinkling of an eye. From the moment when Smernoff’s first shot had startled them until he had breathed his last, not half a minute had elapsed and now all was over. The negro who had settled his score with the murderer of his family no longer resisted Rawlins, but stood regarding the mutilated body of the Russian with much the same expression that a hunter might wear when he has brought down a tiger or a lion. Sam was trying to convince Jules that Smernoff was a prisoner who had escaped; Bancroft and the boys were hovering about Mr. Pauling striving to make sure that he was not even scratched; and Rawlins was explaining matters to the quartermaster who had come from the boat on the run at sound of the shots.

“I’ll say he was a dirty skunk!” declared Rawlins, “And I thought he was straight and reformed. Guess once a ‘red’ always a ‘red.’ Blamed if I ain’t sorry I didn’t let him drift. By glory! for all we know he’s been tipping his friends off by radio or something. Well, that’s that for him.”

Then, turning towards the negro executioner, he gave that individual the surprise of his life by slapping him heartily on the back.

“Guess you saved us the trouble!” he cried to the amazed man who had expected nothing short of being summarily killed for taking a white man’s life. “Here, shake!”

Although the negro understood not a single word, yet Rawlins’ tones and gestures were unmistakable and with a surprised grin he seized the diver’s outstretched hand and pressed it firmly.

“I guess he’ll be a good boy to have along with us,” Rawlins commented, as he picked up Smernoff’s pistol and pocketed it.

“Rum lot, them Russians,” remarked the quartermaster as he spat contemptuously into the bushes and regarded Smernoff’s body impartially. “I never trusted of him, Sir, and I kept me weather eye on him. I’m thinkin’ he no more than got his reward, Sir.”

The boys, now that they were convinced that Mr. Pauling was unharmed, glanced at the dead Russian and turned away with a shudder.

“Just the same I’m rather sorry for him,” declared Frank. “Of course he was a beast and tried to kill you, Mr. Pauling, but somehow it seems terrible to see a man cut down that way!”

“Death’s a terrible thing in any form,” said Mr. Pauling as he led the boys away. “But don’t waste pity on him, Frank. He was a murderer many times over and would have ended on the gallows or in the electric chair if he had not met death here. He richly deserved his fate and you cannot blame the negro for killing him. I thank God that his dying effort to murder me was frustrated by his own violence.”

Sleep was out of the question after the exciting events and the final tragedy of the night, and now the first faint light of dawn was showing in the east.

“We’ll start as soon as it’s light enough,” announced Mr. Pauling. “Jules and a few of his men will go along. He’d like to send a crowd, but they’re of no use. They have no arms and I have no intention of taking any chances or undue risks. I wish to locate the submarine and the hiding place of these men. There is a remote possibility that we may take them unawares or find but a few there, but I trust mainly to locating them, then sending for Disbrow and his bluejackets and attacking the rascals’ lair with an overwhelming force.”

“Well, of course you know best,” assented Rawlins. “But personally, I’d like to take along this bunch of wild men and sail into those ‘reds.’ I’d back these bush niggers with machetes against any sneaking, bomb-throwing Bolsheviks that ever grew whiskers.”

“Undoubtedly,” smiled Mr. Pauling, “but I’m not leading any party into peril with the boys along.”

“Yes, you’re dead right there,” agreed Rawlins earnestly. “Some one would most likely get hurt and we can’t risk the boys. Well, any time you say the word, I’m ready.”

Half an hour later, the party set forth. Jules with four men—among them the powerful negro who had cut down Smernoff—led the way in a narrow dugout and Rawlins chuckled as he noticed that every man carried a naked, razor-edged machete beside him and that two were armed with old muzzle-loading guns. Unknown to Mr. Pauling, he had slipped Jules the Russian’s pistol and he felt confident that, should occasion arise, the Martinicans would, as he put it, “give the ‘reds’ some jolt.”

Silently as ghosts, the West Indians paddled through the waterways of the vast swamp, following, with unerring instinct, the channels and leads they knew, but leaving the white men hopelessly confused as to the direction in which they were traveling.

They had proceeded steadily for more than two hours, the sun was high in the heavens and the boys were wondering how on earth they could have drifted so far while they slept, when Jules’ canoe swung sharply to the left, his men ceased paddling and an instant later it grated upon a low clay bank with the boat close behind it.

With a signal for silence and caution, Jules stepped ashore, gave a few whispered orders to his men, and led the way up a narrow, almost invisible trail.

Close at his heels followed Rawlins, Mr. Pauling, the two boys and Sam, while the quartermaster and Bancroft remained in the boat beside the canoe in which Jules had left two of his men.

“Guess there won’t be any fighting just yet,” Rawlins remarked to himself. “Just a bit of scouting likely.”

Noiselessly as shadows the negroes slipped along the trail with the leather-shod white men striving to make as little sound as possible and ever climbing higher and higher up the steep hillside. Finally, after ten minutes’ steady walking, Jules halted, crouched down and crawled forward on all fours, signaling for the others to do the same.

As they reached his side they found themselves at the summit of a high hill with a precipitous side facing the swamp and thus leaving an unobstructed view of all below and before them, while they were effectually hidden among the dense growth of ferns and broad-leaved plants.

Jules pointed and in a low whisper muttered “devil boat!” Hemmed in by the labyrinth of mangroves and winding channels, and apparently completely surrounded by the swamps, was a large lagoon and towards the side nearest them a large dark object loomed above the placid water.

All this they took in at a single glance. Before them, there upon this hidden lagoon within the fastnesses of the mangrove swamps, was the long-sought submarine.

“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” exclaimed Rawlins under his breath. “Blamed if the darned sub isn’t sunk!”

“Sunk?” repeated Mr. Pauling inquiringly. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you see?” muttered the diver. “She’s wrecked, sunk, on the bottom. Look how she’s keeled over. Must be full of water! Look at that smashed conning tower; the hatch is open and the water’s half over it. Say, I’ll bet that shot of mine bumped ’em more than I thought. Must have ripped things loose. How the dickens they got in’s a puzzle to me. Must have had emergency hatches or bulkheads or something. Whatever ’twas the old sub’s done for now. Say, they’re trapped! They can’t get away! I’ll say that’s luck! By glory, we’ve got ’em right by the neck!”

“You’re right,” affirmed Mr. Pauling, after carefully scrutinizing the submarine. “She’s evidently deserted and useless. Yes, they’re certainly trapped—that is, unless they clear out overland. As soon as we locate them we can summon Disbrow and make the raid. They certainly cannot escape by water.”

Elated at the thought that luck was with them, that the “reds” were marooned, and that within a short time they would be on their way home with their prisoners, the party followed Jules down the hill to the boats.

“Now for the big secret!” remarked Rawlins as they embarked. “If old Uncle Tom here’s got the right dope we’ll be there in time to look in on ’em at breakfast. Hope they’ll be at home.”

Jules grinned, chuckled, and significantly patted his keen-edged machete. Only now and then could he grasp the meaning of an English word, but he knew, with the African’s primitive instinct, what the diver was talking about. He had proved the accuracy of his statements by showing them the “devil boat” and he rejoiced to think that he would soon see the murderers of his friends led away as captives to meet their just punishment.

“You bet!” nodded Rawlins as he noted Jules’ gesture, “I’ll say you’d like to use that pig-sticker, old boy; but hold your horses. Don’t go losing your head and rushing in where angels fear to tread and spilling the beans before they’re ready to serve. Just make him savvy that, Sam!”

“He say he understand, Chief,” replied the Bahaman when he had, after some difficulty, translated Rawlins’ speech into the limited vocabulary of Martinique Creole. “He say he mos’ careful an’ circum-spec’, Chief. He quite assimilate the importance of carry in’ out yo’ comman’s mos’ precisely, Chief. Ah’ve impressed it upon he an’ he nex’ fr’ens. Yaas, Sir, Ah’ni sure he quite comprehen’s, Chief.” Tom chuckled. “You are funny, Sam!” he exclaimed. “If you use as big words in patois as you do in English I’ll bet he didn’t comprehen’ a bit.”

But whether or not Jules understood the importance of being cool-headed and obeying orders, it was certain that he had assimilated the necessity of proceeding with caution and in silence and his upraised hand and low “Psst!” warned the boys that even whispers must cease. Very slowly and carefully, avoiding the least splashing of paddles, bending low as they passed beneath overhanging branches, the negroes crept along the narrow channel—a slender ribbon of water scarcely wide enough to accommodate the boats—until, when it seemed as if they could go no farther, the canoe slipped into a mass of lily pads and reeds and Jules, stepping into the shallow water, drew it silently upon a shelving bank. When all had disembarked, he turned, crouched low, squirmed through the fringe of underbrush and with the others at his heels came out into fairly open forest. Once more he led them along a game trail, but this time the way led up a gently sloping ridge and in a few moments he came to a halt.

Creeping forward, he beckoned to the Americans, while his negro companions melted into the shadows. Before them was a narrow valley with a small stream flowing through the center and directly across from where they lay among the bushes was a conical hill, its farther side lapped by the waters of a small semicircular bay or estuary that cut deeply into the land. Along the banks of the stream were cultivated lands; plots of banner-leaved plantains and bananas, small gardens of cassava, beans, yams and corn; numerous fruit trees and the dark foliage of coffee; while upon the sides of the hill were groves of coppery-tinted cacao trees with here and there lofty coconut palms towering over all. Half-hidden in the greenery, the roofs fallen in and evidently deserted, were the remains of once large buildings; a stone bridge spanned the stream, and at the edge of the bay were the tumble-down remnants of a dock.

Evidently, at some former time, the place had been a well-kept and prosperous plantation, but now everything appeared abandoned and deserted, although the gardens were carefully cultivated and attended to.

“Humph!” muttered Rawlins. “Don’t look as if our friends lived there.”

Jules whispered a few words to Sam.

“He says as how tha’ men mek they abidin’ place in the hill yonder, Chief,” interpreted the Bahaman.

“In the hill?” murmured Mr. Pauling. “Ah, of course, in a cave! But where is the cave?”

Sam put the question to Jules.

“Tha’s the entrance, Chief, tha’ dark spot beyon’ tha’ clump of cabbage pa’m, Chief,” announced Sam in whispers.

“Well, I’d like to have a closer squint at it,” declared Rawlins. “I vote we go over and say ‘howdy’ to ’em.”

“Odd that there’s no sign of life or smoke,” commented Mr. Pauling. “I don’t see a soul. Surely they must have a boat.”

“He says as how tha’ boat goes out an’ in tha’ cave by water, Chief,” explained Sam. “Tha’s a’ openin’ on tha’ water side also, Sir.”

“Foxy old guys, eh?” muttered the diver. “Don’t intend to be caught in there like rats in a trap. Well, I won’t rest easy till I know they’re there. I’ve a hunch our birds have flown.”

“You’ll never get there without being seen—that is, if there are any men about,” declared Mr. Pauling.

“Not down this way, I admit,” replied Rawlins. “But we can sneak down around the head of the valley, keep back of those thick rose-apple trees that make that hedge above the yam field and work around the base of the hill until—— Thunderation! What’s that?”

From just beyond the brow of the hill, cutting through the clear water, leaving a tiny trail of bubbles behind it, a small object was moving swiftly from the land across the bay. The next instant it was gone.

“Shark!” declared Mr. Pauling.

“Shark nothing!” cried Rawlins leaping up. “It’s another sub! I’ll be jiggered if they haven’t cleared out! Given us the slip! Come on, who’s afraid! Atta boy! I’m going to that cave!”

Before any one could stop him, the diver had burst through the foliage and was tearing down the hillside and so contagious is excitement that, without stopping to think, Mr. Pauling dashed after him with the boys close behind, while Jules and his men, thinking apparently that the signal for an attack had been given, sprang from their hiding places, and with waving, flashing machetes and blood-curdling shouts bounded down the slope with the quartermaster, blowing like a porpoise and crashing through the brush like a herd of elephants, bringing up the rear.

The sudden appearance of the company, the flashing blades, the savage yells, the glint of sun on rifle and pistol would have proved most disconcerting to any one lurking in the valley or the caves, while the noise made by the two-hundred-pound sailor lumbering through the dense undergrowth must have sounded like the onslaught of a score of men. In fact, it was the sudden rush, the surprise, the reckless charge which Rawlins had counted on to win the day, for he had seen the value of such tactics on the Flanders battle front and on one occasion, with but two companions, had captured a German machine gun and crew without a scratch, by just such methods.

To reach the bottom of the hill, dash across the valley, cross the bridge and rush up the short slope to the mouth of the cave took less time than to tell of it, but before the bridge was gained Jules and his men were beside Rawlins, Mr. Pauling was at his heels, and the boys were but a few paces in the rear. Heedless of shots that might come from the cave at any instant, Rawlins and the half-crazed negroes tore up the slope, dodged back of the palms, and with a yell leaped into the cavern with upraised blades and cocked weapons. But not a shot echoed through the rocky chamber, not a blow was struck, not a voice answered Rawlins’ demand for surrender. The cave was empty, deserted, silent as the tomb!

For an instant Rawlins stood gaping about, while the negroes lowered their weapons, drew back a step as though afraid, and jabbered excitedly among themselves. Then the diver grabbed off his hat, hurled it on the floor of the cave and swore volubly and vehemently.

“Of all the rotten luck!” he cried as Mr. Pauling and the others reached the cave panting and out of breath. “They’ve gone! Vamoosed! Cleared out! Given us the slip! That was a sub we saw. Another one. They were wise to us.”

As he spoke, he strode into the cave and the next instant gave a shout. “Look here!” he yelled. “Regular hang-out! Electric lights, beds, billiard tables, and by Jiminy! even a phonograph and a piano!”

It was perfectly true. Just within the entrance of the cavern, a heavy curtain was hung across and beyond this the great, vaulted, subterranean chamber was furnished with every luxury and convenience. There were no partitions—merely draperies and curtains of rich tapestry, satin and plush, but no palace on earth could boast such a ceiling with its vast arches, its thousands of gleaming, snow-white and cream-tinted stalactites and no millionaire’s mansion ever had such walls of scintillating, multicolored dripstone that gleamed and sparkled like myriads of jewels in the light of the clusters of incandescent lamps.

The floor, covered with upjutting stalagmites, had been chiseled and chipped smooth, leaving the shorter columns as supports for tables, stands for rare vases and beautiful statuary, while the great columns where stalactites and stalagmites joined were surrounded by luxurious cushioned seats and hung with pictures. At one side was a grand piano, in a corner was a Victrola, and in two smaller chambers were brass beds and luxurious bedroom furnishings. At every step the boys and their elders exclaimed in wonder and admiration at the luxury and richness of the furnishings of the great cavern. Beyond the first hall was a smaller, narrower chamber, equipped with a huge range and the latest cooking and kitchen devices; beyond this was a small connecting cave where a dynamo and gasoline motor were installed, while far overhead, in the most remote corner, was a tiny aperture in the roof. Presently Rawlins, who had been nervously and hurriedly searching everywhere in the hopes of routing out at least one member of the gang, gave a ringing cry which instantly brought the others to his side.

“There’s the secret to the place!” he announced triumphantly, pointing down from a ledge of rock whereon he stood. “There’s their get-away. I’ll say, they’re clever!”

At this spot, the floor of the cabin came to an abrupt end, dropping in a sheer precipice some fifty feet to a huge pool of dark blue water. But from the verge of the wall a slender ladder led down, its foot resting on a narrow ledge of rock in which several large ringbolts were set. Scattered upon the ledge were coils of rope, tackle blocks, a broken oar, some wire cables and other boat-gear, while beyond, and so perfectly reflected in the glass-like pool that it appeared like a complete circle, was an arched opening with a sunlit strip of water visible through it.

“Get the idea?” asked Rawlins, as the others gazed about. “There’s their dock and there’s where they came in and went out with their sub. But not with that big one that’s knocked galley west out in the lagoon. No, this old boy lived in some style I’ll say—didn’t practice all the socialist Bolshevist stuff he preached, I guess—and had his own private sub, instead of a limousine, tied up handy at his back door. Hello! There’s a paper down there! By crickey! perhaps they dropped something!”

Hurrying nimbly down the ladder, Rawlins stooped, picked up the bit of paper which had caught his eyes and a mystified, puzzled look spread over his face. Slowly and with an odd expression he climbed the ladder.

“Hanged if that don’t beat all!” he declared, as he gained the top and extended the paper towards Mr. Pauling. “It’s a letter, and I’ll be swizzled if it isn’t addressed to you!”

“What?” exclaimed Mr. Pauling as he took the envelope. “By Jove! This is amazing!”

Ripping open the envelope Mr. Pauling drew forth a single sheet of paper. One glance sufficed to read all that was upon it, for there was but a single line.

“Good luck in your search. Sorry not home to receive you. Remember Mercedes.”

There was no signature, but none was needed. The words were typewritten and the machine which had printed them was the one which had typed the inflammatory, revolutionary Bolshevist propaganda which had flooded the States.

Once more the arch criminal had slipped through their fingers. But it had been a close shave.