“Sometimes he goes out in his boat late at night and rows about half the night. I suppose he gets tired of being alone or else can’t sleep.” John Trafton nodded with an expression of satisfaction. This would suit his plans exactly. If he could only enter the cave in one of these absences, he would find everything easy and might accomplish his purpose without running any risk. It was clear to him now that the gold of which the trader spoke was given to his nephew by the hermit. He was justified in thinking so, as there was no other conceivable way in which Robert could have obtained it. He coveted the ten-dollar gold piece, but he was playing for a higher stake and could afford to let that go for the present at least. The fisherman lit his pipe and smoked thoughtfully. His wife was not partial to the odor of strong tobacco, but tobacco, she reflected, was much to be preferred to drink, and if her husband could be beguiled from the use of the latter by his pipe then she would gladly endure it. John Trafton smoked about ten minutes in silence and then rose from his chair. “I guess I’ll go out on the beach and have my smoke there,” he said as he took his hat from the peg on which he had hung it on entering the cabin. “You’re not going back to the tavern, John?” said his wife in alarm. “No, I’ve quit the tavern for to-night. I’ll just go out on the beach and have my smoke there. I won’t be gone very long.” When Trafton had descended from the cliff to the beach he took the direction of the hermit’s cave. Of course he had been in that direction a good many times, but then there was nothing on his mind and he had not taken particular notice of the entrance or its surroundings. It was a calm, pleasant moonlight night and objects were visible for a considerable distance. Trafton walked on till he stood at the foot of the cliff containing the cave. There was the rude ladder leading to the entrance. It was short. It could be scaled in a few seconds, and the box or chest of gold, in whose existence Trafton had a thorough belief, could be found. But caution must be used. Possibly the hermit might be at home, and if he were, he would, of course, be awake at that hour. Besides, the cave was dark and he had no light. “When I come I will bring matches and a candle,” thought the fisherman. “I can’t find the gold unless I can see my way. What a fool this hermit must be to stay in such a place when with his money he could live handsomely in the city! But I don’t find fault with him for that. It’s so much the better for me.” He turned his eyes toward the sea, and by the light of the moon he saw the hermit’s slender skiff approaching. The old man was plainly visible, with his long gray hair floating over his shoulders as he bent to the oars. “He mustn’t see me,” muttered the fisherman. “I had better go home.” CHAPTER XVIII A DESPERATE CONFLICT