Miss Browne now had clear before her the road to fortune, but unfortunately it led across the sea and quite out of the route of steamer travel.  Capital in excess of Miss Browne’s resources was required.  London proving cold before its great opportunity, Miss Browne had shaken off its dust and come to New York, where a mysteriously potent influence had guided her to Aunt Jane.  Through Miss Browne’s great organizing abilities, not to speak of those newly brought to light in Aunt Jane, a party of staunch comrades had been assembled, a steamer engaged to meet them at Panama, and it was ho, for the island in the blue Pacific main!

With this lyrical outburst Aunt Jane concluded the body of her letter.  A small cramped post-script informed me that it was against Miss H.-B.’s wishes that she revealed their plans to any one, but that she did want to hear from me before they sailed from Panama, where a letter might reach her if I was prompt.  However, if it did not she would try not to worry, for Miss Browne was very psychic, and she felt sure that any strong vibration from me would reach her via Miss B., and she was my always loving Jane Harding.

“And of course,” I explained to Bess as I hurled things into my bags, “if a letter can reach her so can I. At least I must take the chance of it.  What those people are up to I don’t know—­probably they mean to hold her for ransom and murder her outright if it is not forthcoming.  Or perhaps some of them will marry her and share the spoils with Miss Higglesby-Browne.  Anyway, I must get to Panama in time to save her.”

“Or you might go along to the island,” suggested Bess.

I paused to glare at her.

“Bess!  And let them murder me too?”

“Or marry you—­” cooed Bess.

One month later I was climbing out of a lumbering hack before the Tivoli hotel, which rises square and white and imposing on the low green height above the old Spanish city of Panama.  In spite of the melting tropical heat there was a chill fear at my heart, the fear that Aunt Jane and her band of treasure-seekers had already departed on their quest.  In that case I foresaw that whatever narrow margin of faith my fellow-voyagers on the City of Quito had had in me would shrink to nothingness.  I had been obliged to be so queer and clam-like about the whole extraordinary rendezvous—­for how could I expose Aunt Jane’s madness to the multitude?—­that I felt it would take the actual bodily presence of my aunt to convince them that she was not a myth, or at least of the wrong sex for aunts.  To have traveled so far in the desperate hope of heading off Aunt Jane, only to be frustrated and to lose my character besides!  It would be a stroke too much from fate, I told myself rebelliously, as I crossed the broad gallery and plunged into the cool dimness of the lobby in the wake of the bellboys who, discerning a helpless prey, had swooped en masse upon my bags.