“Assuming this to be a genuine message,” I said, “it would appear to give the precise latitude and longitude of some point where it is desirable to dig. I take it that the figures stand for 13 degrees 24 minutes North, 81 degrees 27 minutes West. The world ‘_lucia_’ puzzles me--unless the island of St. Lucia is meant. What ‘_katalina_’ stands for, I do not know--it is evidently a proper name of some kind, ‘_sculle point SWbS 3 trees digge_’ presumably means that one should dig under three trees south-west-by-south of Skull Point--wherever that is. ‘_jno dawson_’ is, of course, John Dawson. Assuming this to be a spirit-message from the other world,” I could not help smiling ironically, “it is possibly the name of the ghost who is communicating--and who desires to indicate to some person that it is his or her turn. He does not specify for what. I may remark that the ghost is either ill-educated or he has an archaic taste in spelling.” “I don’t like it,” said Mrs. Vandermeulen, querulously timid. “Do tear it up, William! I am sure harm will come of it!--It is the Devil tempting you!” “So long as he’s serious, he can tempt me sure easy!” said the old ruffian in a tone of cool blasphemy which sent the colour out of his wife’s face. He rang the bell and the negro steward appeared. “Sam! Ask Captain Higgins to step in here for a moment!” Captain Higgins, the skipper of the yacht, was a level-headed mariner of middle age whom nothing ever ruffled. He was competence itself. “Good evening, Captain Higgins,” said old Vandermeulen, fixing him with the keen eyes under shaggy gray brows, eyes which defied you to divine his purpose whilst they probed yours. “What’s the latitude and longitude of the island of St. Lucia?” “Fourteen North, sixty-one West,” replied Captain Higgins promptly. Old Vandermeulen turned to me. “Then it’s not St. Lucia, young man,” he said. He picked up Geoffrey’s transcription. “Well, now, Captain Higgins, is there any place thirteen-twenty-four North, eighty-one twenty-seven West?” The skipper reflected a moment. “No place of importance, certainly. I’ll get the chart.” He returned with it, spread it out on the saloon table, ran his forefinger across it. “Here you are!” he said. “A small island called Old Providence. It belongs to Colombia.” Geoffrey, who was peering over his shoulder, uttered a startled exclamation. “And look!” he cried. “There’s your Katalina!” He pointed to a small islet just north of Old Providence, a mere dot on the chart. “Santa Katalina!--My hat! that is weird!” It certainly was. From whatever stratum of Pauline’s consciousness her writing had emanated, it was an amazing thing that she should have written down the exact latitude and longitude of a tiny island off the Nicaraguan coast and named it correctly. Even I could not help feeling that it was more than a fortuitous coincidence, that it was uncanny. The others surrendered themselves straight away.