and eager to betake himself to the search
for his cousin.

With returning health, Leigh had betrayed an increased desire to extract
precise information from Kenyon as to the why and wherefore of their
present position, but all the satisfaction he could obtain from that
worthy was a laconic assurance that so far they had made no mistakes,
and that at that moment they were either very near their destination, or
else were on the tail-end of a trail which had been blinded with
consummate skill Kenyon had, he himself said, been very far from idle
during Leigh's illness, and had thoroughly exploited the district, and
taken a number of photographs in the immediate vicinity; but he had come
to the conclusion that nothing of practical utility could be
accomplished until Leigh was fit to return with him to the pass and
again take up the thread of search where they had dropped it, and he
added that if naught of Richard Grenville was written on its silent
walls, he would then be completely nonplussed.

Kenyon, as Leigh had long since learned, was no ordinary police
detective; he was a shrewd and skilful tracker, a man born and brought
up on the frontier of the Far West, and his experience had been dearly
bought in many an Indian fight and foray before he gravitated to New
York to try his hand at journalism as favoured by the New World.

A crack shot with the revolver, and no mean exponent of the beauties of
the Winchester repeater, he was at all times a man to be feared by his
foes, and to be looked up to by his friends, as a veritable tower of
strength.

Of Leigh we need say little, beyond remarking that he was in the prime
of manhood, was as strong as a bull, and had lost none of his skill with
the rifle, whilst he had derived a new, and to his enemies a doubly
dangerous energy, begotten of his loves and of his hates; to him it
seemed that, could they but find his cousin Dick, nothing would be
impossible with such heads and hearts as Grenville and Kenyon possessed,
especially if he were himself there to take a third hand at the game.

CHAPTER THREE.

"BLACK IVORY."

Having arranged to recommence their search at dawn of day, our friends
turned in to rest that night, leaving one of their Zanzibaris on guard.
This man had thus far shown himself fairly reliable, and being a very
great coward, had proved a most excellent watchman, seldom failing to
alarm the camp, at least once every night, with the fearsome news that
blo