“I hope not,” returned Herbert hastily. “He’s one of the meanest boys I ever met. He might just as well have taken poor Bob off the island this afternoon, if he hadn’t been so spiteful and ugly.” “It would serve him right to leave him there a while himself,” suggested Bence. “I agree with you.” There was another pause. Each was troubled by anxious thoughts about the missing boy. When they reached the shore Herbert said: “I’m going to Mr. Trafton’s to see if Bob has got home.” “I’ll go with you,” said the fisherman briefly. They reached the humble cabin of the Traftons and knocked at the door. Mrs. Trafton opened it. “Good evening, Mr. Bence,” she said. “I believe this young gentleman is Master Herbert Irving? I have often heard Robert speak of him.” “Is Robert at home?” asked Herbert eagerly. “No, he has been away all day,” answered his aunt. “Do you know where he is?” inquired Ben Bence soberly. “Mr. Trafton wouldn’t tell me. He said he had sent him away on some errand, but I don’t see where he could have gone, to stay so long.” It was clear Mrs. Trafton knew nothing of the trick which had been played upon her nephew. “Tell her, Mr. Bence,” said Herbert, turning to his companion. “Has anything happened to Robert?” asked Mrs. Trafton, turning pale. They told her how her husband had conveyed Robert to Egg Island and then treacherously left him there, to get off as he might. “Was there any difficulty between Bob and his uncle?” asked Ben Bence. “Yes; the boy had a little money which had been given him and my husband ordered him to give it up to him. He’d have done it, if he hadn’t wanted to spend it for me. He was always a considerate boy, and I don’t know what I should have done without him. Mr. Bence, I know it’s a good deal to ask, but I can’t bear to think of Robert staying on the island all night. Would you mind rowing over and bringing him back?” As yet Mrs. Trafton did not understand that any greater peril menaced her nephew. “Mrs. Trafton, we have just been over to Egg Island,” said the fisherman. “And didn’t you find him?” “No; he was not there.” “But how could he get off?” “He was seen this afternoon making a raft from the old timbers he found in the wreck. He must have put to sea on it.” “Then why is he not here?” “The sea was rough, and----” Mrs. Trafton, who had been standing, sank into a chair with a startled look. “You don’t think my boy is lost?” “I hate to think so, Mrs. Trafton, but it may be.” From grief there was a quick transition to righteous indignation. “If the poor boy is drowned, I charge John Trafton with his death!” said the grief-stricken woman with an energy startling for one of her usually calm temperament. “What’s this about John Trafton?” demanded a rough voice. It was John Trafton himself, who, unobserved, had reached the door of the cabin. Ben Bence and Herbert shrank from him with natural aversion.