I walk round towards Thomas Roch, and before he can see me I examine him attentively.

His serious, thoughtful physiognomy is no longer that of a madman.  He walks slowly, with his eyes bent on the ground, and under his arm a drawing-board upon which is stretched a sheet of paper covered with designs.

Suddenly he raises his head, advances a step and recognizes me.

“Ah!  Gaydon, it is you, is it?” he cries, “I have then escaped from you!  I am free!”

He can, indeed, regard himself as being free—­a good deal more at liberty in Back Cup than he was in Healthful House.  But maybe my presence evokes unpleasant memories, and will bring on another fit, for he continues with extraordinary animation: 

“Yes, I know you, Gaydon.—­Do not approach me!  Stand off! stand off!  You would like to get me back in your clutches, incarcerate me again in your dungeon!  Never!  I have friends here who will protect me.  They are powerful, they are rich.  The Count d’Artigas is my backer and Engineer Serko is my partner.  We are going to exploit my invention!  We are going to make my fulgurator!  Hence!  Get you gone!”

Thomas Roch is in a perfect fury.  He raises his voice, agitates his arms, and finally pulls from his pockets many rolls of dollar bills and banknotes, and handfuls of English, French, American and German gold coins, which slip through his fingers and roll about the cavern.

How could he get all this money except from Ker Karraje, and as the price of his secret?  The noise he makes attracts a number of men to the scene.  They watch us for a moment, then seize Thomas Roch and drag him away.  As soon as I am out of his sight he ceases-to struggle and becomes calm again.

July 27.—­Two hours after meeting with Thomas Roch, I went down to the lagoon and walked out to the edge of the stone jetty.

The tug is not moored in its accustomed place, nor can I see it anywhere about the lake.  Ker Karraje and Engineer Serko had not gone yesterday, as I supposed, for I saw them in the evening.

To-day, however, I have reason to believe that they really have gone away in the tug with Captain Spade and the crew of the Ebba, and that the latter must be sailing away.

Have they set out on a piracy expedition?  Very likely.  It is equally likely that Ker Karraje, become once more the Count d’Artigas, travelling for pleasure on board his yacht, intends to put into some port on the American coast to procure the substances necessary to the preparation of Roch’s fulgurator.

Ah! if it had only been possible for me to hide in the tug, to slip into the Ebba’s hold, and stow myself away there until the schooner arrived in port!  Then perchance I might have escaped and delivered the world from this band of pirates.

It will be seen how tenaciously I cling to the thought of escape—­of fleeing—­fleeing at any cost from this lair.  But flight is impossible, except through the tunnel, by means of a submarine boat.  Is it not folly to think of such a thing?  Sheer folly, and yet what other way is there of getting out of Back Cup?