So far as he could judge the cave harbored no further surprises.  Returning towards the exit his boots dislodged more empty cartridges from the sand.  They were shells adapted to a revolver of heavy caliber.  At a short distance from the doorway they were present in dozens.

“The remnants of a fight,” he thought.  “The man was attacked, and defended himself here.  Not expecting the arrival of enemies he provided no store of food or water.  He was killed whilst trying to reach the well, probably at night.”

He vividly pictured the scene—­a brave, hardy European keeping at bay a boatload of Dyak savages, enduring manfully the agonies of hunger, thirst, perhaps wounds.  Then the siege, followed by a wild effort to gain the life-giving well, the hiss of a Malay parang wielded by a lurking foe, and the last despairing struggle before death came.

He might be mistaken.  Perchance there was a less dramatic explanation.  But he could not shake off his, first impressions.  They were garnered from dumb evidence and developed by some occult but overwhelming sense of certainty.

“What was the poor devil doing here?” he asked.  “Why did he bury himself in this rock, with mining utensils and a few rough stores?  He could not be a castaway.  There is the indication of purpose, of preparation, of method combined with ignorance, for none who knew the ways of Dyaks and Chinese pirates would venture to live here alone, if he could help it, and if he really were alone.”  The thing was a mystery, would probably remain a mystery for ever.

  “Be it steel or be it lead,
 Anyhow the man is dead.”

There was relief in hearing his own voice.  He could hum, and think, and act.  Arming himself with the axe he attacked the bushes and branches of trees in front of the cave.  He cut a fresh approach to the well, and threw the litter over the skeleton.  At first he was inclined to bury it where it lay, but he disliked the idea of Iris walking unconsciously over the place.  No time could be wasted that day.  He would seize an early opportunity to act as grave-digger.

After an absence of little more than an hour he rejoined the girl.  She saw him from afar, and wondered whence he obtained the axe he shouldered.

“You are a successful explorer,” she cried when he drew near.

“Yes, Miss Deane.  I have found water, implements, a shelter, even light.”

“What sort of light—­spiritual, or material?”

“Oil.”

“Oh!”

Iris could not remain serious for many consecutive minutes, but she gathered that he was in no mood for frivolity.

“And the shelter—­is it a house?” she continued.

“No, a cave.  If you are sufficiently rested you might come and take possession.”

Her eyes danced with excitement.  He told her what he had seen, with reservations, and she ran on before him to witness these marvels.

“Why did you make a new path to the well?” she inquired after a rapid survey.