“Know the old Doc. well?” he inquired.  “Queer old duck, eh?  And that Li Ho is about the most Chinky Chinaman I ever seen.  Come to think of it, I never paid him back that gas I borrowed.”

“Hasn’t he been across lately?” asked Spence, controlling his voice.

“Haven’t seen him.  But then ’tisn’t as if I was out looking for him.  Used to be a right pretty girl come over sometimes, the old Doc’s daughter.  Hasn’t been around for a long time.  Maybe you’re a relative or some-thing?”

“See here,” said Spence.  “It’s on account of the young lady that I am going there tonight.  I have reason to fear that she may be in danger.”

“That so?” The boat-man’s comfortably slouched shoulders squared.  He leaned over and did something to his engine.  “In that case we’ll take a chance or two.  Hold tight, we’re bucking the tide-rip.  Lucky we’ve got the moon!”

Yes, they had the moon!  With growing despair the professor watched her white loveliness drag a slipping mantle over the dark water.  The same light must lie upon the clearing on the mountain . . . where was Li Ho?  Was he awake—­and watching?  Had he warned the girl?  Or was she sleeping, weary with the journey, while only one frail old Chinaman stood between her and a terror too grim to guess . . .

A long interval . . . the sailing moon . . . the swish of parting water as the launch cut through . . .

“Must be thereabouts now,” said the boat-man suddenly.  “I’ll slow her down.  Keep your eye skinned for the landing.”

A period of endless waiting, while the launch crept cautiously along the rocky shore—­then a darker shadow in the shadows and the boat-man’s excited “Got it!” The launch slipped neatly in beside the float.

“Want any help?” asked the boat-man curiously as his passenger sprang from the moving launch.

Spence did not hear him.  He was already across the sodden planks.  Only the up-trail now lay between him and the end—­or the beginning.  The shadows of the trees stretched waving arms.  He felt strong as steel, light as air as he sprang up the wooded path. . . .

It was just as he had pictured it—­the cottage in its square of silver . . . the sailing moon!

But the cottage was empty.

He knew at once that it was empty.  He dared not let himself know it.  With a doggedness which defied conviction, he dragged his feet, suddenly heavy, across the rough grass.  The door on the veranda was open.  Why not?—­the door of an empty house. . . .  He went in.

The moonlight showed the old familiar things, the chinks in the wall, the rickety table, the couch, the stairway! . . .  He stumbled to the stairway.  He forced his leaden feet to mount it. . . .  It was pitch dark there.  The upper doors were shut. . . .  “Her door—­on the right.”  He said this to himself as if prompting a stupid little boy with a lesson . . .  In the darkness his hand felt for the door-knob . . . but why open the door? . . .  There was no life behind it.  He knew that. . . .  There was no life anywhere in this horrible emptiness. . . .  “Death, then.”  He muttered, as he flung back the door.