“A deep-water channel leading in to a certain coast, where everybody else supposes there is nothing but shallow water. The Government charts put down the place as partly unsurveyed, but all impossible for navigation. The upgrowth of coral, they say, is turning part of the sea into dry land. In a large measure this is true; but at one point—which I have discovered—a river comes down from the interior, and the scour of this river has cut a deep narrow channel out through the reefs to the deep sea water beyond.” “Well,” Shelf broke in, “I see no value in that.” “Wait a minute! In confidence I’ll tell you it is on the West Coast of Florida—on the Mexican Gulf coast. The interior of southern Florida is called the Everglades. It’s partly lake, partly swamp; built up of mangroves, saw-grass, cypress trees, and water; tenanted by snakes, alligators, wild beasts, and a few Seminole Indians. Only one expedition of whites has been across it—or rather only one expedition known to history. But I’ve been there, right into the heart of the Everglades; in fact, I’ve just come from there; and I netted £1000 out of the trip.” “How?” asked Shelf, eagerly. “Never mind exactly how. That’s partly another man’s business. Shall we say the other man gave me a commission there, and I carried it out, and got duly paid? Anyway, that’s sufficient explanation. But now about this channel I’ve found. If one gives it to the chart people, they’ll simply say, ‘Thank you,’ and publish your name in one number of an official magazine which nobody reads. I don’t long for fame of that kind. I’ve the sordid taste to much prefer gold.” “I think I understand you,” said Shelf. “Give me a minute to think it out.” “A week if you like,” said the other; and, picking up his cue, again returned to the billiard-table. The balls clicked lazily, and the rosewood clock marked off the seconds with firmness and precision. Shelf lay back in his chair, his finger-tips together beneath the square chin, his eyes watching the shadows which the lamps cast on the frescoed ceiling. He looked entirely placid. No one would have guessed the simmer of thoughts which were poppling and bubbling in his brain. A stream of projects came before him, flashed into detail, and were dismissed as impracticable. It was the great trait of this man’s genius that he could think with the speed of a hurricane, and clear his head of an unprofitable idea a moment after it was born. Twenty schemes occurred to him, all to be dismissed: and then came the twenty-first; and that stayed. He ran a mental finger through all its leading details: he conned over a thousand minutiæ. It was the thing to suit his purpose. A bare minute had passed, but he needed no more time for his deliberations. The scheme seemed perfect to him, without flaw, without chance of improvement. The hugeness of it thrilled him like a draught of spirit. He was betrayed away from his unctuous calm; his hands dropped on to the arms of the chair.