med. "Who do
you think it is?"

"I don't think, Hazel. I know that that is a picture of Tarzan of the
Apes."

"Jane!"

"I cannot be mistaken. Oh, Hazel, are you sure that he is dead? Can
there be no mistake?"

"I am afraid not, dear," answered Hazel sadly. "I wish I could think
that you are mistaken, but now a hundred and one little pieces of
corroborative evidence occur to me that meant nothing to me while I
thought that he was John Caldwell, of London. He said that he had been
born in Africa, and educated in France."

"Yes, that would be true," murmured Jane Porter dully.

"The first officer, who searched his luggage, found nothing to identify
John Caldwell, of London. Practically all his belongings had been
made, or purchased, in Paris. Everything that bore an initial was
marked either with a 'T' alone, or with 'J. C. T.' We thought that he
was traveling incognito under his first two names--the J. C. standing
for John Caldwell."

"Tarzan of the Apes took the name Jean C. Tarzan," said Jane, in the
same lifeless monotone. "And he is dead! Oh! Hazel, it is horrible!
He died all alone in this terrible ocean! It is unbelievable that that
brave heart should have ceased to beat--that those mighty muscles are
quiet and cold forever! That he who was the personification of life
and health and manly strength should be the prey of slimy, crawling
things, that--" But she could go no further, and with a little moan
she buried her head in her arms, and sank sobbing to the floor.

For days Miss Porter was ill, and would see no one except Hazel and the
faithful Esmeralda. When at last she came on deck all were struck by
the sad change that had taken place in her. She was no longer the
alert, vivacious American beauty who had charmed and delighted all who
came in contact with her. Instead she was a very quiet and sad little
girl--with an expression of hopeless wistfulness that none but Hazel
Strong could interpret.

The entire party strove their utmost to cheer and amuse her, but all to
no avail. Occasionally the jolly Lord Tennington would wring a wan
smile from her, but for the most part she sat with wide eyes looking
out across the sea.

With Jane Porter's illness one misfortune after another seemed to
attack the yacht. First an engine broke down, and they drifted for two
days while temporary repairs were being made. Then a squall struck
them unaware, that carried overboard nearly everything above