But Sir Arthur Deane, after an agonized scrutiny of the weird-looking persons escorted by the sailors to the water’s edge, sadly acknowledged that neither of these could be the daughter whom he sought.  He bowed his head in humble resignation, and he thought he was the victim of a cruel hallucination when Iris’s tremulous accents reached his ears—­

“Father, father!  Don’t you know me?”

He stood up, amazed and trembling.

“Yes, father dear.  It is I, your own little girl given back to you.  Oh dear!  Oh dear!  I cannot see you for my tears.”

They had some difficulty to keep him in the boat, and the man pulling stroke smashed a stout oar with the next wrench.

And so they met at last, and the sailors left them alone, to crowd round Anstruther and ply him with a hundred questions.  Although he fell in with their humor, and gradually pieced together the stirring story which was supplemented each instant by the arrival of disconsolate Dyaks and the comments of the men who returned from cave and beach, his soul was filled with the sight of Iris and her father, and the happy, inconsequent demands with which each sought to ascertain and relieve the extent of the other’s anxiety.

Then Iris called to him—­

“Robert, I want you.”

The use of his Christian name created something akin to a sensation.  Sir Arthur Deane was startled, even in his immeasurable delight at finding his child uninjured—­the picture of rude health and happiness.

Anstruther advanced.

“This is my father,” she cried, shrill with joy.  “And, father darling, this is Captain Robert Anstruther, to whom alone, under God’s will, I owe my life, many, many times since the moment the Sirdar was lost.”

It was no time for questioning.  Sir Arthur Deane took off his hat and held out his hand—­

“Captain Anstruther,” he said, “as I owe you my daughter’s life, I owe you that which I can never repay.  And I owe you my own life, too, for I could not have survived the knowledge that she was dead.”

Robert took the proffered hand—­

“I think, Sir Arthur, that, of the two, I am the more deeply indebted.  There are some privileges whose value cannot be measured, and among them the privilege of restoring your daughter to your arms takes the highest place.”

Then, being much more self-possessed than the older man, who was naturally in a state of agitation that was almost painful, he turned to Iris.

“I think,” he said, “that your father should take you on board the Orient, Iris.  There you may, perhaps, find some suitable clothing, eat something, and recover from the exciting events of the morning.  Afterwards, you must bring Sir Arthur ashore again, and we will guide him over the island.  I am sure you will find much to tell him meanwhile.”