was a summer morning of great beauty, by land and sea, and under any circumstances, I should have rejoiced in my surroundings. The sun was already well up in a cloudless sky, the deep blue of which was reflected in the lightly dancing waves all round me—dancing under the gentle stirrings of a soft wind that blew shoreward from the south and drove the surface waters to a long ripple of white against the dark outline of the mainland, three miles away. The atmosphere was peculiarly clear, and I could see all the places along the coast, and pick out the bolder features of the island hills: as I stood there, gazing shoreward, I could have named a dozen such features, from the grey tower of our own parish church at Middlebourne to the great grove of beech on Belconbury Beacon, fifteen miles away to the eastward, and to the high buildings and tall ships’ masts in the docks at Kingshaven, half that distance to the West. But close as all these things looked in that pellucid morning air, I felt that for all practical purposes Pepita and I—for the time being, at any rate—were as far off them as if we had been in some island of the Pacific. There were reasons for that feeling, and good ones, due to the peculiar nature of the coast in our neighbourhood. For some distance from the shore line the sea thereabouts was very shallow; the shallow waters extended for many miles into the Channel. And Kingshaven itself could only be entered by a passage running far away from Melsie Island, while our own light craft at Middlebourne and Wreddlesham, coming out from thence to the fishing grounds, could only get in or out by another equally remote on the other side. Melsie Island, in short, was out of the way of craft of any sort: from any of the big ships going into Kingshaven, or coming out of it, it would look like a speck on the water; to the fishing boats, passing it at some considerable distance on its eastern side, it had no significance. If it had not been for its absolute remoteness from any sea-route it would certainly have had a warning light, if not a permanent light-house on it; it had neither, for the reason that there was no likelihood whatever of any ship, big or little, getting so much out of its course as to come anywhere near it. And so I knew that there was small chance of anybody coming to rescue Pepita and myself from this strangely-brought-about imprisonment. As far as I knew, nobody knew that Getch had brought us here, though it might be that our departure from the Shooting Star, in company with Uncle Joseph, had been witnessed by Mandhu Khan. But on that we could not count—and there was always the possibility that the Hindu man-servant was in league with Uncle Joseph and Getch, and had come spying at our prison-window on their behalf, just to see what we were doing. We could count on nothing. No doubt Captain Marigold was actively on the search for his daughter, and I was sure that Keziah would not let her tongue rest in demanding me—I felt, too, that Cherry would bestir himself in seeking for both. But who would dream of our having been carried off to this place? There we were—straight in front of their noses!—and, as I have said, we might as well have been in Samoa.