“They’re a firm of analytical chemists in Washington,” said the captain.  “When I was on the ordnance board I used to get their circulars.”

“Fits in.  What?  More English?  Worse than the German, this is.”

The writing, beginning evenly enough at the top of a page, ran along for a line or two, then fell, sprawling in huge, ragged characters the full length.  Trendon stumbled among them, indignantly.

“June 1, 1904,” he read. “It is done.  Triumph. (German word.) Eureka.  Es ist gefillt.  From the (can’t make out that word) of the inspiration—­god-like power—­solution of the world-problems.  Why, the old fool is crazy!  And his writing is crazier.  Can’t make head or tail of it.”

The captain turned several more pages.  They were blank.  “At any rate, it seems to be the end,” he said.

“I should hope so,” returned the other, disgustedly.

He took the book on his knees, fluttering the leaves between thumb and finger.  Suddenly he checked, cast back, and threw the book wide open.

“Here beginneth a new chapter,” said he, quietly.

No imaginable chirography could have struck the eye with more of contrast to the professor’s small and nervous hand.  Large, rounded, and rambling, it filled the page with few and careless words.

June 2, 1904.  On this date I find myself sole occupant and absolute monarch of this valuable island.  This morning I was a member of a community, interesting if not precisely peaceful.  To-night I am the last leaf.  ‘All his lovely companions are faded and gone,’ the sprightly Solomon, the psychic Nigger, the amiable Thrackles, the cheerful Perdosa, the genial Pulz, and the high-minded Eagen.  Undoubtedly the social atmosphere has cleared; moreover, I am for the first time in my life a landed proprietor.  Item:  several square miles of grass land; item:  several dozen head of sheep; item:  a cove full of fish; item:  a handsomely decorated cave; item:  a sportive though somewhat unruly volcano.  At times, it may be, I shall feel the lack of company.  The seagulls alone are not distrustful of me.  Undoubtedly the seagull is an estimable creature, but he leaves something to be desired in the way of companionship.  Hence this diary, the inevitable refuge of the empty-minded.  Materially, I shall do well enough, though I face one tragic circumstance.  My cigarette material, I find, is short.  Upon counting up—­“

“Damn his cigarettes!” cried the surgeon.  “This must be Darrow.  Finicky beast!  Let’s see if it’s signed.”

He whirled the leaves over to the last sheet, glanced at it, and sprang to his feet.  There, sprawled in tremulous characters, as by a hand shaken with agony or terror, was written: 

    Look for me in the cave. 
                         Percy Darrow.

The bullet hole in the corner furnished a sinister period to the signature.