“I didn’t go to the inlet, sir.  Green had thought of the yawl and had looked after it; he’ll report to you about it.  I just heard a strange yarn from that fellow you sent with me and I want to tell ye what it is.”

The captain laid down his pen, pushed his glasses from his eyes, and looked squarely into Tod’s face.

“He’s been askin’ ’bout Miss Jane Cobden and Archie, and says your son Bart is alive and sent him down here to find out how the land lay.  It’s a cock-and-bull story, but I give it to you just as I got it.”

Once in the South Seas the captain awoke to look into the muzzle of a double-barrelled shot-gun held in the hand of the leader of a mutiny.  The next instant the man was on the floor, the captain’s fingers twisted in his throat.

Tod’s eyes were now the barrels of that gun.  No cat-like spring followed; only a cold, stony stare, as if he were awaking from a concussion that had knocked the breath out of him.

“He says Bart’s alive!” he gasped.  “Who?  That feller I sent with ye?”

“Yes.”

The captain’s face grew livid and then flamed up, every vein standing clear, his eyes blazing.

“He’s a liar!  A dirty liar!  Bring him in!” Each word hissed from his lips like an explosive.

Tod opened the door of the sitting-room and the Swede stepped in.  The captain whirled his chair suddenly and faced him.  Anger, doubt, and the flicker of a faint hope were crossing his face with the movement of heat lightning.

“You know my son, you say?”

“I do.”  The answer was direct and the tone positive.

“What’s his name?”

“Barton Holt.  He signs it different, but that’s his name.”

“How old is he?” The pitch of the captain’s voice had altered.  He intended to riddle the man’s statement with a cross-fire of examination.

“’Bout forty, maybe forty-five.  He never told

“What kind of eyes?”

“Brown, like yours.”

“What kind of hair?”

“Curly.  It’s gray now; he had fever, and it turned.”

“Where—­when?” Hope and fear were now struggling for the mastery.

“Two years ago—­when I first knew him; we were in hospital together.”

“What’s he been doin’?” The tone was softer.  Hope seemed to be stronger now.

“Mining out in Brazil.”

The captain took his eyes from the face of the man and asked in something of his natural tone of voice: 

“Where is he now?”

The Swede put his hand in his inside pocket and took out a small time-book tied around with a piece of faded tape.  This he slowly unwound, Tod’s and the captain’s eyes following every turn of his fingers.  Opening the book, he glanced over the leaves, found the one he was looking for, tore it carefully from the book, and handed it to the captain.

“That’s his writing.  If you want to see him send him a line to that address.  It’ll reach him all right.  If you don’t want to see him he’ll go back with me to Rio.  I don’t want yer supper and I don’t want yer job.  I done what I promised and that’s all there is to it.  Good-night,” and he opened the door and disappeared in the darkness.