slit extended for only a few feet. Then the roof sloped up again. Marjorie found herself in a narrow passage with the fresh breeze blowing on her face. In fact, the draught was so great that the candle went out directly, and she had to put on her shoes and grope her way forward in pitch darkness.
Her great fear was that the passage might lead to others, and that, before she knew it, she would be involved in a maze of subterranean galleries and, if the worst came to the worst, not even be able to rejoin me. She tried to maintain her direction by keeping always close to the right-hand wall and by counting her steps. But the gallery was so dark and it twisted so frequently that she soon lost count. At last she went blindly along, stopping at intervals to satisfy herself that she still felt the wind on her cheek.
She had halted irresolute and was thinking about turning back when, out of the darkness in front of her, a little glow appeared. At first a mere suggestion of light, it grew to a steady yellow radiance that lit up, though but dimly, the rocky roof of the corridor. The light itself appeared to be concealed by a bend in the gallery.
Marjorie remained perfectly still, her heart beating fast. Footsteps were approaching; then the murmur of voices reached her ear. Her first instinct was to turn tail and flee; but then the footsteps stopped and the light stood still.
“Four and twenty hours already are they away,” said a deep rumbling voice in German, “and not back yet! Der Stelze is too confident, Herr Leutnant...”
“Yet the doctor described exactly where he tied up the launch,” answered another voice, hard and metallic, with a more refined enunciation. “Do you know what I think, Schröder? This English nobleman and his orderly have seized the launch...”
“Aber nein, Herr Leutnant?”
“And gone off to fetch their yacht back. She only went to Alcedo, at least so the doctor told us...”
“Then the yacht may be back quite soon, Herr Leutnant?”
“Certainly! That's my conviction. And to think that Grundt had this cursed Engländer in his power and let him go!”
“Bah!” said Schröder, “he grows old, der Stelze! Here three days are gone and not a trace of the treasure. In a little while who knows?—these damned Engländer will be here and our chance of making our fortunes will be gone for ever.”
“You speak true, Schröder! If only I had any support, I would depose Grundt and take charge myself. But with these filthy Spanish monkeys...”
“Speak softly, Herr Leutnant...”
Intent as she was upon this conversation, Marjorie did not notice the light advancing until it was too late. Round the bend in the passage came a big, yellow-bearded German sailor swinging a ship's lantern, the blond young German officer, Ferdinand von Hagel, at his heels. In an instant they were on her and, gripping her by the wrists, dragged her down the gallery in the direction from which they had come. In silence they hustled her along for some hundred paces, then stopped at a bend.
“Wait here!” whispered the officer to Schröder, an evil smile on his face, “I go to reconnoitre. This will be a pleasant surprise for our comrades...”
He tiptoed away. Suddenly, from without, a harsh voice cried loudly:
“You idle rascals, the launch must be there!”
There was a confused murmur, and the voice spoke again:
“Then the English yacht may be back at any time now...”
Von Hagel appeared in the gallery.
“Bring her along!” he ordered softly, beckoning with his hand.
The harsh voice shouted:
“Well, we shall have to fight for it!”
“No, Herr Doktor!” said von Hagel at the mouth of the gallery. “No! There need be no fight!”
They had emerged into a rocky hollow, flooded with brilliant sunshine which almost blinded Marjorie coming from the dank, dark recesses of the cliff. An arm of vivid green tree hung across the opening of the passage, and beyond it there was a glimpse of gorgeous-hued bushes, over which the painted butterflies hovered, of bright blue sky, and, in the distance, sparkling green sea. And across the scene the keen sea-breezes romped, blowing the hair about the girl's eyes, a breath of life after the clammy atmosphere of the cave.
His back to a tree, a ragged blanket cast across his knees, the Man with the Club Foot lay. His face was pallid and his huge body shook with ague. Before him stood two uncouth figures, each with a rifle and blanket slung, poncho-fashion, across him, the centre of an excited, gesticulating group.