terious, so incomprehensible! He had
learned nothing new about the plot. He had no documents with which to
confront the conspirators. He had no protection against these two men,
one of whom, he knew, had vowed to kill him.

The motor boat glided out on the waters north of Jamaica, on her way to
that grim passage-way between Cuba and Haiti, that key to the Caribbean,
which is guarded by the Mole St. Nicholas.

Yet, withal, Stuart had one protector. Behind him stood the power of a
New York newspaper, and, with that, he felt he had the power of the
United States. There is no flinching, no desertion in the great army of
news-gatherers. There should be none in him.

With no support but that, with nothing to guide him but his faith in the
paper that sent him forth, Stuart set his face to the shore of that
semi-savage land, on the beach of which he expected to find his foes
awaiting him.

CHAPTER XIV

TRAPPED!

All that night the little motor boat chugged on. She was small for so
long a sea-passage, but the preacher knew her ways well. Many a journey
had he taken to the Caymans and other Jamaican possessions in the
interests of his faith.

In the night-watches, Stuart grew to have a strong respect for him, for
the preacher was one in whom the missionary spirit burned strongly, and
he was as sincere as he was simple. Each of the three on board took
turns to sleep, leaving two to manage the boat. Stuart got a double dose
of sleep, for the preacher, seeing that the boy was tired, ran the craft
alone during the second part of his watch.

Dawn found them in the Windward Passage, with the Mole of St. Nicholas
on the starboard bow. They slowed down for a wash and a bite of
breakfast, and then the preacher, with a manner which showed it to be
habitual, offered a morning prayer.

The Mole St. Nicholas, at its southern end, has some small settlements,
but Stuart felt sure that it could not be here that he was to land. They
cruised along the shore a while, and, on an isolated point, saw an old
half-ruined jetty, with four figures standing there. As the boat drew
nearer, Stuart recognized them as Manuel Polliovo, Cesar Leborge and two
Cacos guerillas, armed with rifles and machetes.

"Are you afraid to follow me?" queried Stuart to the negro who had
driven the automobile.

"'Fraid of dem Haiti niggers? No, Sah. I'm a Jamaican!"

This pride of race among certain negroes--not always rightly valued
among the whites--h