Mr. Buxton nodded. "I quite understand your feelings, Jack," he replied. "I've wondered whether the matter might not have a very simple explanation after all. One thing struck me. Has your father ever said anything about his health to you? You know he's been a great deal in India and Burmah. It's a very easy thing to get a touch of the sun, and that will often cause a man to lose the sense of his identity and get lost for a time." Jack shook his head. "I've never heard him mention such a thing," he said. "He's always been perfectly fit whenever I've seen him." "Yes, yes," said Mr. Buxton, "and whenever I've seen him, too. He has a wonderful constitution. But, you know, the possibility crossed my mind, and I mentioned it." At this moment the servant announced that the meal was ready, and Jack did his best to eat something. It was a very poor best, however, for he was too anxious to be on his way to be able to eat, and he was relieved when Mr. Buxton said it was time to start and sent the servant for a cab. On their way to Charing Cross they did not talk much: conjecture was a pretty useless thing, and, in their present state of utter lack of information, conjecture was the only thing possible. The bustle of getting a ticket and finding a seat occupied most of the ten minutes they had to spare before the train started, and, as the swift express glided out, Mr. Buxton waved his hat to Jack leaning through the window, and cried, "Good luck!" Of Jack's swift scurry across the Channel and over the Continent it is not necessary to enter into details. He made the journey with the utmost speed, and chafed at every delay. At last the train ran into the station of Brindisi, and Jack hung half out of the window, his eyes searching the crowd for Risley, to whom he had telegraphed his time of arrival. "Hullo, Buck," sang out Jack, as a middle-sized, stiff-built man of five and thirty ran up to his carriage door. "Glad to see you, Jack," said Buck Risley, as they shook hands. "Very glad to see you." "Any news?" snapped Jack. "Not a word," replied Buck gravely, "not a word. Is this your bag?" "Yes," said Jack sombrely, for he was very disappointed. He had been hoping to hear that something had been found out, or that his father had returned. Buck took Jack's gladstone, called a carriage, and gave the name of the hotel. He did not speak till they were rattling along the streets of Brindisi. "Say, Jack, this beats the band," he said. "I can't make a guess what's happened to the Professor." Mr. Haydon and Buck Risley had first met in a "wild-cat" mining camp in Dakota. _The Lone Wolf Clarion_ had introduced the English engineer to the local community as Professor Haydon, and Mr. Haydon had been the Professor ever since to his part-comrade, part-servant.