"They're going to search for us," was the reply. Brian Strong had the Rioguayan airmen's own words to support his statement, for amid the babel he managed to overhear one of the men declare that the Englishmen must be found, and taken prisoners. These were the Comandante's explicit instructions. There were now eight of the crew on the beach, all of them arguing with each other and paying scant heed to the excited shouts of an officer in the pilot's seat of the flying-boat. At length two of the crew went on board, reappearing with a long, scraggy dog, whose chief points were his long drooping ears and lolling tongue. Brian Strong recognized the breed as a cross between a Cuban bloodhound and a Brazilian whippet. The dog was carried ashore in spite of its weight, the apparent reason being that for the purpose for which it was intended it must not walk through water. At the sight of the hound Brian felt more ill at ease than he had since the appearance of the flying-boat. He knew the ferociousness of the breed and their skill in following the trail of a fugitive. He almost wished he had fallen in with his nephew's unspoken suggestion and had tried the moral and physical effect of a sudden and unexpected burst of automatic pistol firing. It was too late for that now. The opportunity had passed, for already some of the men were screened by the intervening wall of rock. So Brian watched the movements of the two men with the dog, noting with considerable apprehension that both fellows, in addition to their firearms, carried a supply of hand-grenades, which might or might not be smoke bombs. Presently they, too, passed out of the Englishmen's arc of vision; but from auricular evidence, it was plain that they were experiencing considerable difficulty in persuading the animal to scale the cliff. But one point was distressingly in evidence; the hound was already on the trail, since he had indicated the way by which Uncle Brian and Peter had gained the summit. It seemed quite a long interval before the baying of the hound announced that the feat of the ascent was accomplished. Momentarily the two fugitives expected to hear their pursuers descending the narrow gorge in which they were concealed, but minutes passed without their unpleasant expectation being realized. Gradually the deep notes of the dog, accompanied by the encouraging shouts of the searchers and the occasional report of firearms, died away. "Good business," whispered Peter. "The brute's picked up the wrong scent. He's following my track where I went this morning." Which was exactly what the hound was doing, accompanied by the airmen who were firing at haphazard into every bush they passed, on the chance of compelling their quarry to abandon a possible place of concealment.