Larone walked over, and apologizing, interrupted:
"My dear Captain, do not search for the thieves too long. To stay after today is to slap Fate in the face. It may take a month—a week—or a day—but trouble is sure to come—from up there—and what good would the gold be then?"
"Monsieur Larone is right," said Sally. "We ought to sail tomorrow."
"Perhaps—we'll see," was the only answer. The eyes of both the Captain and Ben, who had joined them, contracted in suspicion, which the latter voiced a few moments later, while the Frenchman was pleading earnestly with Sally.
"What's his idea, trying to scare us away? Do you think he's in with that gang? I never did trust these coffee-coloured chaps. South-Americans and Frenchmen, they're all alike,—smooth-talkers and quick with the knife." He accented the last word, peculiarly, significantly. Sally was right—Ben had not been himself. A very human jealousy and a little covetousness, also very human, had flowered from the root of all evil, in the heart of an otherwise nice boy.
The Captain turned his head towards the mountain, then answered coolly:
"We want to be fair, Ben. He doesn't look crooked. I don't like that smoke myself."
"Handsome rogues are the worst. He's hustling us off too quick. He offered to help in the hunt, but that's just a blind. He can't hang around here."
Perhaps he felt a little ashamed of himself—but only for a moment—when he saw what Sally was doing. On her knees in the freshly-turned earth, she was carving with Ben-
