My first glance was towards the door of the rock passage leading to the lift. It was still open. Sitting on the barrier twelve yards or so away was Thumbwood. A rifle lay across his knees and he was placidly smoking his pipe. "All right?" I shouted. "All O.K., Sir John," he answered, standing up. "Not a sign of anyone. As a matter of fact, Mr. Danjuro and me have ascertained that this 'ere dog-fancier 'adn't time to get through to his friends upstairs. I got 'old of 'im just as he was topping the fence." I followed his glance, and I saw Mr. Vargus, trussed like a fowl, on the floor a yard or two away. I had quite forgotten that ingenious and artistic person, and I started. He was a sorry sight enough, dirty, blood-stained and horrible, as his pale, wicked face stared up at me. He said nothing, and I shuddered as I looked at him--shuddered as I had never done at Helzephron. "Where's Mr. Danjuro?" I asked. "Up at the mouth of the cave, Sir John. I was to send you to him directly you came." I nodded, turned, and began to walk up the great cave. The Pirate Airship lay there, gleaming and wonderful. There was a light steel ladder at her side as I passed, leading up into the fuselage, and it was only by a strong effort of will that I could keep myself from mounting it and exploring the mechanical marvels that I knew she contained. However, I resisted the temptation and hurried on. The lights depending from the roof grew dimmer each moment as I drew near the curving entrance. "It must be full day outside," I thought, as the fresh sea-air came to meet me, and then, as I turned round the bend, I saw the squat, black figure of the Japanese silhouetted against the rosy fires of sunrise. Danjuro was standing motionless. He was looking down at some humped objects upon the ground. The rope, like a wisp of spider's web, swung gently to and fro. There was not a sound save the soft murmur of the sea far down below. "I'm all right now," I said, and he turned to me without a start, though he could not have heard me coming. His face was calm, but wrinkled up in every direction. He looked like a man of immense age, and his narrow eyes were full of brooding, sombre light. Almost at his feet lay the body of Helzephron. It had been decently disposed with the hands upon the breast, and the morning light played over the hawk-like, bronzed face and open eyes in which there was now no cruelty. The dead man was august as he lay there. There was a certain nobility about the features. He did not look like a scoundrel, and all resentment and hate passed away from me for ever as I looked at him. The two huge dogs, one with a bullet through its brain, the other shot in the chest and through the heart as it was in the act of leaping, were hideous objects.... When I looked up again the wrinkles had gone from Danjuro's face, the sombre expression from his eyes. It was a magical change, but I was long past wonder at anything in connection with him.