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ing MacIan. “He put up his black head and grinned at me.”

Turnbull thrust his hands through his red hair like one who gives up the world as a bad riddle. “Lord love a duck,” said he, “can it be Jamaica?”

Then glancing at his companion with a small frown, as of one slightly suspicious, he said: “I say, don’t think me rude—but you’re a visionary kind of fellow—and then we drank a great deal. Do you mind waiting here while I go and see for myself?”

“Shout if you get into trouble,” said the Celt, with composure; “you will find it is as I say.”

Turnbull ran off ahead with a rapidity now far greater than his rival’s, and soon vanished over the disputed sand-hill. Then five minutes passed, and then seven minutes; and MacIan bit his lip and swung his sword, and the other did not reappear. Finally, with a Gaelic oath, Evan started forward to the rescue, and almost at the same moment the small figure of the missing man appeared on the ridge against the sky.

Even at that distance, however, there was something odd about his attitude; so odd that