of the surf, instead of helping to keep him wakeful, seemed, now that he
was outside his room, to lull him to sleep.

His excitement, and the forebodings which the strange figure had brought
to his mind, soon calmed down and disappeared. His head drooped. A
cool wind got up and gently fanned his heated cheek, and within half an
hour he was asleep--far more deeply, too, than he had been when
stretched beneath his mosquito net. He snored loudly and contentedly.
The gun slipped to the ground, and caused him to stir uneasily. But he
did not awake. He slipped farther down into his chair, and slept the
sleep of the exhausted, oblivious of his danger, forgetful of the vow he
had made, and of the watch which he had meant to keep. And his snores,
the click of his rifle, and the shuffle of his feet as he stretched them
out, were as a signal to the rascal who lurked in the shadows. He
slipped into the open and listened. Then he dropped on all fours, and
stealthily crept towards the verandah. At times he was hidden in the
deep shade cast by the many shrubs which surrounded the house, while at
others he knelt fully outlined--a short, broad-shouldered savage, as
naked as the day when he was born, dark grey in colour, and glistening
under the moon's rays, for his body was freely anointed with oil. At
such moments his pace quickened till he reached another friendly shadow,
where he lurked for a minute or more, only the whites of his eyes
showing occasionally as he stretched his head from the shade. Soon he
was near the verandah, and seemed on the point of leaping the low rail
which enclosed it, when an unearthly shriek--the familiar night-call of
a forest animal--broke the silence, and set him trembling.

"I'd wring its neck!" he growled hoarsely, while he wiped the beads of
perspiration from his forehead. "The brute startled me, and may have
awakened the young fool on the verandah. If it has--well, I must have
the money. I must have it this night, too, and without further waiting.
To-morrow will be too late. He'll know the truth then. He's cunning,
this young Stapleton--cunning. He's deep and too knowing, and he
suspects. To-morrow the books will show what has been happening these
five years and more, and then--"

His eyes rolled, and an oath escaped his lips, for he thought of the
Castle, of the cell which would receive him, and of the labour to which
he would be condemned.

"To-night or never!" he muttered. "