The Texan lost little time in producing a match, but when he attempted to strike it he failed, the brimstone breaking off. Three matches were used before one burned. The light flared up, Buckhart holding it above his head. Its glow fell on the old professor and the two boys, and simultaneously they made an amazing discovery. They were alone in the boat! Bayazid, the guide, had disappeared! Dick had his revolver ready for action, and he was standing in a half-crouching position, peering over the head of Buckhart at the place in the boat lately occupied by the guide. “He’s gug-gone!” gasped Zenas. Brad dropped the match, and again they were buried in darkness which seemed to oppress them like an awful weight. “Great catamounts!” said a voice that sounded strange and husky, but which Dick recognized as that of the Texan. “Where has he gone? What does it mean, partner?” “It means that we are the victims of trickery of some sort,” answered Dick, speaking in a low tone. “It means that we are deserted to perish on the bosom of this awful buried lake!” came from the professor, in something like a moan. “I am to blame! I brought you here!” “But whatever could be the object?” questioned Brad, in a puzzled tone. “If it’s robbery——” “It’s a plot—a plot, boys! We are objects of suspicion. That agent of the secret police suspected us of something. In this awful city to be suspected is to be doomed.” “I can’t realize it yet,” muttered Dick. “How could the guide get out of the boat?” “I’ll strike another match, pard,” said the Texan. “Keep your gun ready for use.” “There are other torches,” reminded Dick. “We placed them in the bottom of the boat. Find them, Brad, and light one.” During the interval that followed the Texan was heard feeling about the bottom of the boat. After a time he confessed: “I can’t seem to get my paws on them. I’ll have to use another match. The light will show us where they are.” Another match was lighted, but, though it was held and moved about to illumine the bottom of the boat, not a torch was discovered. When they realized that the extinguished torches were gone they sat up and looked into one another’s eyes by the last gleams of the exhausted match, which Buckhart held until the blaze scorched his fingers. For some moments silence followed. Floating there on the motionless bosom of that black lake, no sound came down to them from the great city overhead. The stillness was appalling, yet all feared to speak, dreading the sound of their own voices. Finally Dick asked: “How many matches have you, Brad?” “Not over four or five more.” “And I have none. How about you, professor—have you any?” “Not one,” was the despairing answer. Suddenly Buckhart grated: “I’d like to get my paws on the treacherous dog who deserted us in this fix! I’d certain fit him for a funeral! You hear me affirm!”