“That’s your opinion,” he sneered. “You know nothing about it!--I’ve had them feelings myself--feelings that I’ve been to a place before when I sure know I haven’t. By God, that’s it!--Pauline’s just remembering--coming back to these old places--and she’ll take us a bee-line to the cache!” He strode off to impart this illuminating theory to his son, and I saw no more of them until supper time. They were, I was sure, concerting some plan for cutting me out of a share in the treasure. They had the furtive look of a couple of conspirators as we three, Pauline and her mother still absent, sat that night at table. Both forced themselves to exhibit a strained politeness to me, which obviously concealed some treacherous design. I didn’t like the atmosphere at all and was impelled to clear it. “By the way,” I remarked, casually, “I don’t want a share in that treasure--I prefer to work for my living.” As I had not the slightest faith in its existence, this renunciation was not difficult. “Supposing your theory to be true, it belongs to Miss Vandermeulen if it belongs to any one.” “Sure, that’s so!” agreed the old man. “It’s Pauline’s treasure, right enough. Ain’t it, Geoffrey?” “I guess it’s no one else’s,” said Geoffrey, picking up the idea. “I’ll see to that.” I could not help smiling at the gratuitous menace in his tone; he might have been sitting on the treasure-chests already. At that moment we were startled by an appalling scream, a choking cry, from Pauline’s stateroom. We rushed in and stood for a moment transfixed with horror. Pauline, leaning out of her bunk, was throttling with both hands the life out of her mother, who had been sitting by the bedside. In a flash of my first perception of the scene, I saw that the girl had reverted to her trance-personality. It was Lucia who had that deadly grip upon the other woman’s throat, Lucia who glared at her with fiendishly triumphant eyes, Lucia who gloated mockingly in her foreign accent: “Ah, Teresa!--You think you would take the Englishman from me--you think you would go away with John Dawson and the treasure?” She laughed, cruelly exultant. “I think no, Teresa--I think no--not with the treasure! You can go with that John Dawson, yes! But not with the treasure! You go and wait for him--for your John Dawson--I will send him to you--soon--soon!” Her low laugh was diabolical. We flung ourselves upon her, but her strength was superhuman. She seemed utterly oblivious of us, as heedless of our struggles as though we were not there. Her eyes flashing, her teeth showing, she continued to jeer at her victim in her foreign voice: “He will come to you to-night--your John Dawson--as he promised, yes! I will send him to you----!” Only as we finally tore the almost strangled Mrs. Vandermeulen from her hands did she suddenly cease to speak. She sank back upon the bed, swooning into complete unconsciousness.