In a moment they all saw it, a single, pin-point glow, far back in the blackness, a Cyclopean eye, that swayed as it approached.  Alternately it waned and brightened.  Suddenly it illuminated the dim lineaments of a face.  The face neared them.  It joined itself to reality by a very solid pair of shoulders, and a man sauntered into the twilit mouth of the cavern, removed a cigarette from his lips, and gave them greeting.

“Sorry not to have met you at the door,” he said, courteously.  “It was you that knocked, was it not?  Yes?  It roused me from my siesta.”

They stared at him in silence.  He blinked in the light, with unaccustomed eyes.

“You will pardon me for not asking you in at once.  Past circumstances have rendered me—­well—­perhaps suspicious is not too strong a word.”

They noticed that he held a revolver in his hand.

Captain Parkinson came forward a step.  The host half raised his weapon.  Then he dropped it abruptly.

“Navy men!” he said, in an altered voice.  “I beg your pardon.  I could not see at first.  My name is Percy Darrow.”

“I am Captain Parkinson of the United States cruiser Wolverine,” said the commander.  “This is Mr. Barnett, Mr. Darrow.  Dr. Trendon, Mr. Darrow.”

They shook hands all around.

“Like some damned silly afternoon tea,” Trendon said later, in retailing it to the mess.  A pause followed.

“Won’t you step in, gentlemen?” said Darrow, “May I offer you the makings of a cigarette?”

“Wouldn’t you be robbing yourself?” inquired the captain, with a twinkle.

“Oh, you found the diary, then,” said Darrow easily.  “Rather silly of me to complain so.  But really, in conditions like these, tobacco becomes a serious problem.”

“So one might imagine,” said Trendon drily.  He looked closely at Darrow.  The man’s eyes were light and dancing.  From the nostrils two livid lines ran diagonally.  Such lines one might make with a hard blue pencil pressed strongly into the flesh.  The surgeon moved a little nearer.

“Can you give me any news of my friend Thrackles?” asked Darrow lightly.  “Or the esteemed Pulz?  Or the scholarly and urbane Robinson of Ethiopian extraction?”

“Dead,” said the captain.

“Ah, a pity,” said the other.  He put his hand to his forehead.  “I had thought it probable.”  His face twitched.  “Dead?  Very good.  In fact ... really ... er ... amusing.”

He began to laugh, quite to himself.  It was not a pleasant laugh to hear.  Trendon caught and shook him by the shoulder.

“Drop it,” he said.

Darrow seemed not to hear him.  “Dead, all dead!” he repeated.  “And I’ve outlasted ’em!  God damn ’em, I’ve outlasted ’em!” And his mirth broke forth in a strangely shocking spasm.

Trendon lifted a hand and struck him so powerfully between the shoulder blades that he all but plunged forward on his face.