When the captain's voice died away, the two friends gazed at each other in silence.
"What is this?" Doctor Clary finally asked.
"I do not believe my own eyes!" the captain answered.
"This, of course, is no illusion."
"No."
"It is plainly written, 'Nelly Rawlinson and Stanislas Tarkowski.'"
"Most plainly."
"And they may be somewhere in this region."
"God rescued them, so it is probable."
"Thank Him for that," exclaimed the doctor fervently. "But where shall we seek them?"
"Is there no more on the kite?"
"There are a few other words but in the place torn by the bough. It is hard to read them."
Both leaned their heads over the sheet and only after a long time were they able to decipher:
"The rainy season passed long ago."
"What does that mean?"
"That the boy lost the computation of time."
"And in this manner he endeavored to indicate the date, therefore this kite may have been sent up not very long ago."
"If that is so, they may not be very far from here."
The feverish, broken conversation lasted for a while, after which both began to scrutinize the document and discuss every word inscribed upon it. The thing appeared, however, so improbable that if it were not for the fact that this occurred in a region in which there were no Europeans at all—about three hundred and seventy-five miles from the nearest coast—the doctor and the captain would have assumed that it was an ill-timed joke,
