the very spot upon which the pile of gold had been unearthed by the
Abyssinians; but the surroundings were vastly different from those
which now obtained.

There was a building--there were many buildings--and there were hedges,
fences, and flowers. Tarzan puckered his brow in puzzled study of the
wonderful problem. For an instant he seemed to grasp the whole of a
true explanation, and then, just as success was within his grasp, the
picture faded into a jungle scene where a naked, white youth danced in
company with a band of hairy, primordial ape-things.

Tarzan shook his head and sighed. Why was it that he could not
recollect? At least he was sure that in some way the pile of gold, the
place where it lay, the subtle aroma of the elusive she he had been
pursuing, the memory figure of the white woman, and he himself, were
inextricably connected by the ties of a forgotten past.

If the woman belonged there, what better place to search or await her
than the very spot which his broken recollections seemed to assign to
her? It was worth trying. Tarzan slipped the thong of the empty pouch
over his shoulder and started off through the trees in the direction of
the plain.

At the outskirts of the forest he met the Arabs returning in search of
Achmet Zek. Hiding, he let them pass, and then resumed his way toward
the charred ruins of the home he had been almost upon the point of
recalling to his memory.

His journey across the plain was interrupted by the discovery of a
small herd of antelope in a little swale, where the cover and the wind
were well combined to make stalking easy. A fat yearling rewarded a
half hour of stealthy creeping and a sudden, savage rush, and it was
late in the afternoon when the ape-man settled himself upon his
haunches beside his kill to enjoy the fruits of his skill, his cunning,
and his prowess.

His hunger satisfied, thirst next claimed his attention. The river
lured him by the shortest path toward its refreshing waters, and when
he had drunk, night already had fallen and he was some half mile or
more down stream from the point where he had seen the pile of yellow
ingots, and where he hoped to meet the memory woman, or find some clew
to her whereabouts or her identity.

To the jungle bred, time is usually a matter of small moment, and
haste, except when engendered by terror, by rage, or by hunger, is
distasteful. Today was gone. Therefore tomorrow, of which there was
an infinite