ack, all of you."

Opening his medicine case, he bent over the racked sufferer. Presently the
man sat up, pale and abashed.

"That's how poisonous volcanic gas is," said the surgeon to his commanding
officer. "Only inhaled remnants of the dust, too."

"An ill outlook for the man we're seeking," the captain mused.

"Dead if he's anywhere on this highland," declared Trendon. "Let's look at
his flag-pole."

He examined the staff. "Came from the beach," he pronounced. "Waterworn.
H'm! Maybe he ain't so dead, either."

"I don't quite follow you, Dr. Trendon."

"Why, I guess our man has figured this thing all out. Brought this pole up
from the beach to plant it here. Why? Because this was the best
observation point. No good as a permanent residence, though. Planted his
flag and went back."

"Why didn't we see him on the beach, then?"

"Did you notice a cave around to the north? Good refuge in case of fumes."

"It's worth trying," said the captain, putting up his glass.

"Hold on, sir. What's this? Here's something. Look here."

Trendon pointed to a small bit of wood rather neatly carved to the shape
of an indicatory finger, and lashed to the staff, at the height of a man's
face. The others clustered around.

"Oh, the devil!" cried Trendon. "It must have got twisted. It's pointing
straight down."

"Strange performance," said the captain. "However, since it points that
way--heave aside those rocks, men."

The first slab lifted brought to light a corner of cardboard. This, on
closer examination, proved to be the cover of a book. The rocks rolled
right and left, and as the flag-staff, deprived of its support, tottered
and fell, the trove was dragged forth and handed to the captain. While the
ground jarred with occasional tremors and the mountain puffed forth its
vaporous threats, he and the surgeon, seated on a rock, gave themselves
with complete absorption to the reading.

III

THE CACHE

Outwardly the book accorded ill with its surroundings. In that place of
desolation and death, it typified the petty neatness of office processes.
Properly placed, it should have been found on a desk, with pens, rulers,
and other paraphernalia forming exact angles or parallels to it. It was a
quarto, bound in marbled paper, with black leather over the hinges. No
external label suggested its ownership or uses, but through one corner,
blackened and formidable in its contrast to the peaceful purposes of the
volume, a