The girl stood rigid in her embrace, drawn up away from her, looking down upon her with fixed and hostile eyes. She made one instinctive movement to escape--and then suddenly crumpled in a swoon upon the floor. She came round easily enough under simple restoratives, looked up at us with childish, bewildered eyes--the old Pauline again! Her mother completely broke down over her, sobbing in almost crazy joy at her restoration. Emotionally infected, perhaps, the girl also gave way to a hysterical passion of weeping, which would not be checked, and for which she could give no reason. She seemed not to have the slightest recollection of the part she had just played. Old Vandermeulen, still obsessed by his lust for the treasure, tried to question her. She only stared at him dumbly--a vague fear coming into her eyes, but giving no response. I silenced him with all the authority of my professional position, and got the girl into her stateroom, where we left her with her mother. Throughout the next day neither of the two women appeared. Pauline was utterly prostrated, and she remained in bed. Her mother stayed with her, under strict injunctions to mention nothing of last night’s terrible scene. Meanwhile, of course, we were steadily drawing nearer to the Nicaraguan coast and the island of Old Providence with its tiny and, to us, fascinating satellite, Santa Katalina. Even I could not help wondering what we should find there. The two Vandermeulens were in a fever of excitement, cursing at every moment the slowness of the yacht. We were, as a matter of fact, due to reach the island early next morning. Some time in the afternoon, the old man approached me confidentially. “Say, young know-all,” he said, “what d’you figure out was the meaning of last night’s gaff? I guess Pauline ain’t got no natural talent for play-acting like that.” Rather foolishly, I amused myself with his credulity. “Of course,” I said, concealing a smile, “it may be that in a previous existence your daughter’s name was Lucia--the Spanish lady friend of some of the buccaneers and particularly of a certain John Dawson, who is now directing her to the treasure they buried together a few hundred years ago.” I regretted my words the moment they were uttered. The man’s infatuation needed no fanning from me. “By God, you’ve hit it!” he exclaimed. “And she’s just remembering!--I guess she can lead us straight to it!” “Don’t be absurd!” I said, pettishly. “I was only joking!” He glared at me in savage disappointment. “You’re joking with the wrong man!” he said harshly. “Besides, it sure ain’t impossible!--You don’t know what happens to us when we’re dead, though you do think you know everything!” “No--it’s not impossible,” I conceded. “But it’s improbable.”