He made for the beach and stood there waiting. The rocks to westward cut off his view of the oncoming boat and he had time for a moment’s thought.

He felt like an actor who had to appear on the stage with a half-learned part. Thinking entirely of how to hide his treasure, he had forgotten to invent a story to account for his presence on the island.

It was too late now, for here came the boat’s nose round the western rocks, a large, white-painted boat, flashing eight oars in the sun.

Now she was coming dead on for the beach and Gaspard was wading out knee-deep to meet her. Within ten strokes of the beach, the men ceased rowing and she came bravely on, the bow oar standing up and shouting something in English which Gaspard did not understand; he waved and shouted a reply in French and the next moment he was clutching the thwart, being hauled aboard and shoved aft.

The mate of the vessel, who was steering, a hatchet-faced American, hauled Gaspard down beside him and without waiting for word or question, which would have been useless, considering that he could scarcely speak a syllable of French, shouted orders to the crew and the boat poled off from the shore and began its return journey to the ship.

288 “French?” said the mate, when they were under way.

Gaspard nodded, “Oui, oui,” then pointing behind him, “wreck;” it was one of the few English words that he knew. The hands in the boat, all Americans, lean-faced, bronze, chewing as they rowed, looked with interest at the marooned one and made remarks about him one to the other, but the mate, after the first interrogation, seemed to have no interest in anything but getting back to the ship as quickly as possible. There was a life belt in the stern of the boat with the words “Anne Martin” on it.

Gaspard pointed to the name and then at the ship they were approaching.

“Anne Martine?” asked he.

The mate nodded and spat into the sea.

“Quelle porte?” asked Gaspard, pointing southward.

“St. Pierre.”

“St. Pierre!” cried Gaspard. “O mon Dieu, St. Pierre—St. Pierre Martinique?”

The mate nodded.

For a moment Gaspard could not believe that such luck was his. Out of thirty or forty possible ports she was bound for St. Pierre, for Marie. Then he laughed and clapped his knees with his hands; the oarsmen laughed half mockingly, poking fun at him in American slang, but the mate did not laugh, he was a man who, to use his own expression, had no use for laughter, besides, his eyes and his mind were otherwise engaged.

Gaspard, in his excitement over lighting the signal fire and the approach of the boat, had forgotten one thing. He was wearing the diamond ring he had taken from Sagesse, a terrible blunder, almost unbelievable, did not one know the capacity of the human mind for error.

The mate, he was first officer of the Anne Martin and his289 name was Skinner—though he could scarcely keep his eyes from the flashing jewel, said nothing, and now the boat was under the port quarter of the Anne Martin, oars were in and Gaspard climbing the ladder which had been flung down, whilst a hard-faced man in a panama, Captain Stock, no less, the master of the vessel, was leaning over the side shouting directions to the mate.

In a moment the crew were on board, the boat swung up at the davits, the braces manned and the Anne Martin on her course again.

Then, and not till then, did Captain Stock turn to the new-comer.

“He’s French,” said Skinner, “wrecked over there, but he’s got a diamond on his finger worth ten thousand dollars that wants explaining.”

The Captain glanced at Gaspard, fixed his eyes on the ring and then said, “Call Diego, he can chatter to him, it’s all the d——d Dago is good for.”

It was at this moment that Gaspard, seeing Captain Stock’s gaze fixed on his hand, recognised that he was wearing the ring.

In a moment Diego, a fat Portugee, with black cur............