"And there's the cook. He's so fat and good-natured he must be all
right," Evelyn suggested.

"By Jove! I'd forgotten 'Arry 'Iggins. No, he's against us. He talked to
my man Morgan."

"And I suppose his flunky, Billie Blue, goes with cookie?" I added.

"The nine against us is now eleven," the girl said quietly.

I spoke cheerfully, which is far from how I felt.

"Oh, well, what's the odds? Nine or eleven, we'll beat them."

A steamer rug lying on a lounge at the end of the room heaved itself up.
From its folds emerged the red head of Jimmie, belligerently. Its owner
had evidently been roused from a nap.

"Where do I get off at I'd like to know?" demanded the indignant
namesake of a martyred President. "Didn't I run down his nibs for you in
'Frisco and wise you where he was staying? Didn't I find out he was
aboard here? Why ain't you countin' me in?"

Blythe assented gravely, but with a twinkle in his eye.

"Our error, Jimmie. Counting you we have nine good men and true."

"One of Jimmie's strong points is that he doesn't talk. He knows how to
keep his mouth shut. Don't you, Jimmie?"

"Sure thing, Mr. Sedgwick. I'm a clam, I am."

I nodded.

"Then run along and keep an eye on things outside. If you see anything
suspicious, let me know at once."

"Yes, sir. You bet you." And the boy was off at the word.

"Couldn't we put back to San Diego?" Miss Wallace asked.

The captain shook his head.

"No. If I turned the ship's head they would be about our ears like
rats."

"We'll have to keep on as we are going."

A sardonic smile touched Blythe's strong, lean face.

"It's Mr. Bothwell's move. If we turned back he would have to stop us;
if we continue to Panama he must prevent us from going into the harbor,
or his game is up."

"Then what will he do?"

"He'll move, Miss Wallace."

She looked at him, a man of quiet, contained strength, and some sort of
vision of what we were to go through flitted before her mind. Her lips
were gray and bloodless.

"That dreadful treasure!" she murmured. "Why did we ever come after it?"

A faint sound drew me to my feet and across the room to the stairway. A
fat bulk of a man was crouched on the steps about half-way down. He
scuttled to his feet at sight of me.

"Good afternoon, Higgins! Just taking a nap on the stairs, I presume,"
was my ironical greeting.

The color faded from his blotched face.

"No, sir, not as you might say----" He moistened his dry lips wit