He left the poop before I had time to put another question to him, and as I walked up and down I turned over in my mind the tiny morsel of information I had received.  The captain’s secrecy was peculiar, to say the least, and as I reasoned that Professor Herndon knew absolutely nothing of the Islands, it was quite evident that the orders prohibiting Newmarch from making known the exact destination of the yacht had come from Leith.  It was not the first time I had heard of the Isle of Tears.  Strange stories floated across the Pacific concerning the little islet east of the Suvaroff Group, and out of the reticule of the mind I attempted to drag these stories and piece them together during the minutes that passed after Newmarch had given me the information.  They were not pleasant stories as I remembered them at that moment.  The island had a “past.”  The mention of it brought hazy recollections to natives—­recollections that were too misty to put into words, but which the untutored mind connected with happenings that were anything but pleasant.  And I recalled a night at “Tonga Pete’s” place on the Rue de Rivoli at Papeete, when a sailor from a copra schooner in the bay, who had been marooned upon the island by Captain “Bully” Hayes, told a wild, weird story of unexplainable happenings that he had witnessed during the two days and two nights he had spent ashore.

Holman came hurrying upon deck as I was endeavouring to remember all the story that the sailor had told, and the youngster immediately rushed me with the news.

“The captain has just told me,” I said.

“Well, Leith has just given the information out in the cabin,” he cried.  “They must have decided to give it out at the same moment.”

“But the Professor?” I asked.  “Surely he knew.  Do you mean to say that he was ignorant of the fact that it was the Isle of Tears and not Penrose Island that we were making for?”

Holman laughed at my question.  “You haven’t spoken much to him, Verslun.  He couldn’t remember the name of a place three minutes.  He only knows that there are archaeological treasures on this island we are going to, and he doesn’t care two cents about its name.  Leith has told him some tall stories about the camp, judging by the way the old man’s eyes shine when he mentions it.  Yesterday he read me Leith’s description of stone hamungas and things that are supposed to have been built before Julius Caesar invaded Britain, and he’s pop-eyed with joy as he thinks how he’ll yank Fame by the tail when he gets on the ground and snapshots the affairs.  Gee!  I’m glad I haven’t got a kink for digging up relics and dodging about places that went to smash thousands of years ago.  A vice like that is more expensive than the poker habit.”

“Well, Newmarch says we’ll strike it early in the morning,” I said, “and then we’ll see whether your suspicions are correct.”

“I’m infernally afraid they are,” snapped the youngster.  “I wouldn’t care ten cents about the brute only that the girls are aboard.  I felt sorry when I saw him climb to his feet yesterday.  If you hit him again hit him with something that will crack his skull.  He’s a devil, Verslun, and before we are much older we will find it out.”