The Wings of the Morning. Louis Tracy

some tin utensils, some knives, a sextant, and a quantity of empty cartridge cases. Between the stone and what a miner terms the "face" of the rock was a four-foot space. Here, half imbedded in the sand which covered the floor, were two pickaxes, a shovel, a sledge-hammer, a fine timber-felling axe, and three crowbars.

      In the darkest corner of the cave's extremity the "wall" appeared to be very smooth. He prodded with the stick, and there was a sharp clang of tin. He discovered six square kerosene-oil cases carefully stacked up. Three were empty, one seemed to be half full, and the contents of two were untouched. With almost feverish haste he ascertained that the half-filled tin did really contain oil.

      "What a find!" he ejaculated aloud. Another pair of birds dashed from a ledge near the roof.

      "Confound you!" shouted the sailor. He sprang back and whacked the walls viciously, but all the feathered intruders had gone.

      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.

      "A new path!" The pertinent question staggered him.

      "Yes, the people who lived here must have had some sort of free passage."

      He lied easily. "I have only cleared away recent growth," he said.

      "And why did they dig a cave? It surely would be much more simple to build a house from all these trees."

      "There you puzzle me," he said frankly.

      They had entered the cavern but a little way and now came out.

      "These empty cartridges are funny. They suggest a fort, a battle." Woman-like, her words were carelessly chosen, but they were crammed with inductive force.

      Embarked on the toboggan slope of untruth the sailor slid smoothly downwards.

      "Events have colored your imagination, Miss Deane. Even in England men often preserve such things for future use. They can be reloaded."

      "Yes, I have seen keepers do that. This is different. There is an air of—"

      "There is a lot to be done," broke in Jenks emphatically. "We must climb the hill and get back here in time to light another fire before the sun goes down. I want to prop a canvas sheet in front of the cave, and try to devise a lamp."

      "Must I sleep inside?" demanded Iris.

      "Yes. Where else?"

      There was a pause, a mere whiff of awkwardness.

      "I will mount guard outside," went on Jenks. He was trying to improve the edge of the axe by grinding it on a soft stone.

      The girl went into the cave again. She was inquisitive, uneasy.

      "That arrangement—" she began, but ended in a sharp cry of terror. The dispossessed birds had returned during the sailor's absence.

      "I will kill them," he shouted in anger.

      "Please don't. There has been enough of death in this place already."

      The words jarred on his ears. Then he felt that she could only allude to the victims of the wreck.

      "I was going to say," she explained, "that we must devise a partition. There is no help for it until you construct a sort of house. Candidly, I do not like this hole in the rock. It is a vault, a tomb."

      "You told me that I was in command, yet you dispute my orders." He strove hard to appear brusquely good-humored, indifferent, though for one of his mould he was absurdly irritable. The cause was over-strain, but that explanation escaped him.

      "Quite true. But if sleeping in the cold, in dew or rain, is bad for me, it must be equally bad for you. And without you I am helpless, you know."

      His arms twitched to give her a reassuring hug. In some respects she was so childlike; her big blue eyes were so ingenuous. He laughed sardonically, and the harsh note clashed with her frank candor. Here, at least, she was utterly deceived. His changeful moods were incomprehensible.

      "I will serve you to the best of my ability, Miss Deane," he exclaimed. "We must hope for a speedy rescue, and I am inured to exposure. It is otherwise with you. Are you ready for the climb?"

      Mechanically she picked up a stick at her feet. It was the sailor's wand of investigation. He snatched it from her hands and threw it away among the trees.

      "That is a dangerous alpenstock," he said. "The wood is unreliable. It might break. I will cut you a better one," and he swung the axe against a tall sapling.

      Iris mentally described him as "funny." She followed him in the upward curve of the ascent, for the grade was not difficult and the ground smooth enough, the storms of years having pulverized the rock and driven sand into its clefts. The persistent inroads of the trees had done the rest. Beyond the flight of birds and the scampering of some tiny monkeys overhead, they did not disturb a living creature.

      The crest of the hill was tree-covered, and they could see nothing beyond their immediate locality until the sailor found a point higher than the rest, where a rugged collection of hard basalt and the uprooting