He had arrived at the cave only a few minutes before the fisherman and had already explored the inner room in search of the large sum of money which Trafton had given him to understand the hermit kept on hand. He had no candle, but he found a lamp and lighted it. He was in the midst of his search when he heard the entrance of the fisherman. He concluded, very naturally, that it was the hermit, and he prepared himself for an attack. He instantly extinguished the lamp and stole out into the vestibule. It was his first thought to glide by the supposed hermit and escape, but this would cut him off from securing the booty of which he was in quest. He resolved upon a bolder course. He grappled with the newcomer, confident of easily overcoming a feeble old man, but, to his disagreeable surprise, he encountered a vigorous resistance far beyond what he anticipated. Neither of the two uttered a word, but silently the fierce conflict continued. “I must be weak if I cannot handle an old man,” thought the professional burglar, and he increased his efforts. “If he masters me and finds out who I am, I am lost!” thought John Trafton; and he, too, put forth his utmost strength. The fisherman had the disadvantage in one respect. He was wholly unarmed and his opponent had a knife. When he found that Trafton--who was of muscular build--was likely to gain the advantage, with a muttered oath he drew his knife and plunged it into his opponent’s breast. They were struggling just on the verge of the precipice, and Trafton, when he felt the blow, tottered and fell, his antagonist with him. “The old fool’s dead, and I must fly,” thought the burglar. With hasty step he fled along the sands till he came to a point where he could easily scale the cliff. Reaching the top, he walked quickly away from Cook’s Harbor. Half an hour later the hermit beached his boat, fastened it and proceeded to his quarters. He was plunged in thought and observed nothing till he stumbled against the fisherman’s body. “Some drunken fellow probably,” he said to himself. He lit a match, and, bending over, was horror-stricken to see the fixed features and the blood upon the garments of the unfortunate fisherman. “There has been murder here! Who can it be?” he exclaimed. He lit another match and took a closer look. “As I live, it is Trafton, Robert’s uncle!” he cried. “What mystery is here? How did the unhappy man come to his death?” He was not long left to wonder alone, for Robert, as was not unusual with him, had been taking an evening stroll on the beach, and, seeing his employer, came up to speak to him. “Good evening, sir,” he said, as yet innocent of the sad knowledge which was soon to be his. “Is anything the matter?” “Robert,” said the hermit solemnly, “prepare yourself for a terrible surprise. A man has been killed and that man is----” “My uncle!” exclaimed our hero in dismay. “Yes, it is he!”