“Come,” he said, and they silently followed him to a little distance, pausing near the foot of the nearer tree that completed the bridge over the jungle. “Here he is,” said the Spaniard. “Where?” asked Stark. “At your feet.” But they could see nothing. Stark struck a match, sheltering it with his hollowed hands, as he cast the light downward. Hogan breathed forth an exclamation that betrayed the agitated state of his nerves. For the flickering light fell on the pale face of Chester Arlington, who lay stretched on his back where he had fallen when struck down by the club in the hands of Miguel Bunol. Arlington’s eyes were closed, and near his left temple something red trickled down from his hair. “Good heavens!” gasped Hogan, as he dropped on his knees. “Why, this is carrying the thing too far! I’m afraid he’s badly hurt!” Crauthers said nothing, for in his heart there was a mingled sensation of satisfaction and fear. “What in blazes have you done, Bunol?” demanded Stark, who was likewise alarmed. “I soak him!” said the Spaniard. “That was what you say for me to do. I do it!” The match fell from Stark’s fingers. In darkness they stood huddled about that silent form stretched on the ground. Fear had gripped their hearts. They longed to turn and hurry from the spot, but curiosity held them yet a little longer. Stark struck another match and bent over Arlington. He thrust a hand inside Chester’s coat and felt for his heart. In his excitement he was quite unaware that he was feeling on the wrong side. “My God!” he said huskily. “You have killed him, Bunol! His heart does not even flutter!” “He should know better than to fool with Miguel Bunol,” said the Spaniard. By the gleam of the expiring match they glanced at Miguel’s face and saw there no look of regret. The Spaniard was utterly pitiless, and remorse had not touched him. A little while before he had seemed the devoted friend of Chester Arlington, but his friendship had turned to the bitterest hatred, and his hatred had led to this terrible deed that might be—murder! “Let’s get out of here!” whispered Crauthers, “We didn’t do it! We had nothing to do with it! We know nothing about it!” Stark wanted them to stay a little longer, but panic seemed to clutch them. Crauthers went staggering up the tree trunk, with Hogan following close behind. They did not pause when Stark called to them. “We better go, too,” said Bunol. “You go to the devil!” burst from Stark, suddenly overcome by repulsion caused by the treachery of the fellow. But he did not care to be left there with the Spaniard and the fellow he had slain, so he hastened to cross over the trees and rush after his companions. Like a cat, Bunol followed, and in the desolate woods was left the unfortunate lad who had been struck down by his erstwhile comrade.