The door of the stateroom was flung open, and Paul Clayton stood in the opening, his figure silhouetted against the light that streamed through the porthole behind him. “Custom officer on board, Mr. Miles,” announced the captain gruffly. “You’ll have to declare any baggage you have. They are particular here in San Juan.” “I don’t see why,” objected Clayton. “We have come from one American port to another, and have not touched anywhere. It seems strange to me.” “It’s the regular thing. That’s all I know. I’ll call the custom officer. He’ll come down to see you.” Paul Clayton turned back into his little cabin, and cast a rather anxious glance at the suit case on a chair at the back. “Very well!” he said, at last. “I’ll stay right here till he comes.” Captain Bill Lawton went to the companionway, and, as he ascended, he whispered to the officer from police headquarters: “There’s your man. I’m going on deck.” “All right!” For a minute--or a fraction of one--during which the still-puzzled skipper ascended to the deck, Sawyer stood behind the sailcloth portière. Then he swung out and strode down the saloon with an official step that no one could mistake. He stopped opposite Clayton and looked him steadily in the eye. Placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder, he said coldly: “Paul Clayton! That is your name?” “Yes.” “I am from police headquarters, New York. You are under arrest.” CHAPTER III. A POINT FOR THE ARCHCROOK. For the merest part of a second Paul Clayton neither moved nor spoke. Then his hand shot down to a side pocket and came up with a heavy revolver. The officer had been looking for some such move. He seized the young man’s wrist and gave it a wrench that caused the weapon to fall clattering to the floor. “That won’t help you,” was the quiet warning. “Don’t resist, because you will be the person to suffer if you do.” “What am I arrested for?” asked Clayton, composing himself with a tremendous effort. “Stealing jewels estimated at about eighty thousand dollars from Mr. Stephen Reed, of New York City. He is said to be your uncle. We think we have the goods on you, too.” Paul Clayton dropped his head despairingly. To think that, just when he had been so sure that he could return to his uncle the jewels he knew now he never had meant to keep, and begin life anew, with no stain on his name, he had to be arrested by this strange detective, who had followed him all this way, and seemed to have got to San Juan before him! “Very well!” he sighed. “I’ll go with you quietly. There is nothing else I can do. I only want to say that Mr. Reed would have had all his property back as soon as it could reach him by express, and that there would have been no need for this arrest.” “I guess so!” remarked the detective, with an incredulous shrug. “But I caution you that anything you say may be used against you at your trial. My advice to you is not to talk.”