ng of
tree-tops in the gale. But there was an undercurrent of deeper
sound--water surely, water churning among rocks. It was a stream--the
Garple of course--and then he remembered where he was and what had
happened.

I do not wish to portray Dickson as a hero, for nothing would annoy him
more; but I am bound to say that his first clear thought was not of his
own danger. It was intense exasperation at the miscarriage of his
plans. Long ago he should have been with Dougal arranging operations,
giving him news of Sir Archie, finding out how Heritage was faring,
deciding how to use the coming reinforcements. Instead he was trussed
up in a wood, a prisoner of the enemy, and utterly useless to his side.
He tugged at his bonds, and nearly throttled himself. But they were of
good tarry cord and did not give a fraction of an inch. Tears of
bitter rage filled his eyes and made furrows on his encrusted cheek.
Idiot that he had been, he had wrecked everything! What would Saskia
and Dougal and Sir Archie do without a business man by their side?
There would be a muddle, and the little party would walk into a trap.
He saw it all very clearly. The men from the sea would overpower them,
there would be murder done, and an easy capture of the Princess; and
the police would turn up at long last to find an empty headland.

He had also most comprehensively wrecked himself, and at the thought
genuine panic seized him. There was no earthly chance of escape, for
he was tucked away in this infernal jungle till such time as his
enemies had time to deal with him. As to what that dealing would be
like he had no doubts, for they knew that he had been their chief
opponent. Those desperate ruffians would not scruple to put an end to
him. His mind dwelt with horrible fascination upon throat-cutting, no
doubt because of the presence of the cord below his chin. He had heard
it was not a painful death; at any rate he remembered a clerk he had
once had, a feeble, timid creature, who had twice attempted suicide
that way. Surely it could not be very bad, and it would soon be over.

But another thought came to him. They would carry him off in the ship
and settle with him at their leisure. No swift merciful death for him.
He had read dreadful tales of the Bolsheviks' skill in torture, and now
they all came back to him--stories of Chinese mercenaries, and men
buried alive, and death by agonizing inches. He felt suddenly very
cold and sick, and h