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but he followed without a word when Tony turned up the street. It was not a long one, the scrub was soon reached. It was thick and tangled, and at all times damp; just then the ground was like a sopping sponge and every depression was a brook, every leaf spilt water on the men as they pushed through. When they were well into it Tony raised his voice in a shout for Liane, but there was no cry in answer, only the sound of running water and the loud rain on the leaves.

Charbonnel caught his breath in a sob; Tony looked at him with impatience and distaste, and they went on. It was slow work, because they had entered on the thickest side. Presently he shouted again, and in the pause that followed: “She didn’t go to the Cooksons’ or to Browne’s?” he said. “You asked there, of course?”

Charbonnel threw up his hands. “Would I have come to you first?” he said.

There was nothing to answer. They pressed on; they were climbing the bed of a little torrent that was now running faster than usual; though the trees met close above it, they left space to crawl through, and it was easier going than the jungle on either side. The noise of water grew louder. Tony recognised the place; there was a clear space quite near, where the torrent fell over a ten-foot rock, and the pool below was wonderful; he had often been there with Liane. Green and silver it was, and the mosses——— He quickened his pace, calling himself a fool for the small, cold hand that had closed round his heart. He wanted to be first into that little open space, for he was afraid. . . . Ah, what a fool he was! Worse than Charbonnel———

But he was right. Liane was there. The clear emerald of the pool was troubled to jade by the rain, but her face showed white through it. She was never so white before,