Elsie was sufficiently well acquainted with shipping to realize the sensation that would be created by the first cablegram from Coronel anouncing the non-appearance of the steamer in the Straits. The Valparaiso newspapers would be full of surmises as to the vessel’s fate. They would publish full details of the valuable cargo—and give a list of the passengers and officers. Ah! Ventana would learn then, if he had not heard of it earlier, that she was on board. And he alone would understand the true reason of her flight from Chile. Her cheeks flushed, and she applied herself more closely to the chart she was copying. She had left a good deal unsaid in her brief statement that morning. How strange, how utterly unexpected it was, that Ventana’s name should fall from Courtenay’s lips—Courtenay, of all men living! And what did Isobel mean, during that last dreadful scene ere she was carried away to the boat, by screaming in her frenzy that Ventana had taken “an ample vengeance.” Vengeance for what? Had the half-breed dared to make the same proposal to the rich and highly placed Isobel Baring that he did not scruple to put before the needy governess? Surely that was impossible. There were limits even to his audacity— “Well, how is my chief hydrographer progressing?” Courtenay’s cheery voice banished the unwelcome specter of Ventana. Elsie started. “I do believe you were day-dreaming,” said the captain with a surprised smile. “A penny for your thoughts?” “I don’t think you can pay me,” she retorted, hoping to cover her confusion. “Won’t you accept Chilean currency?” “Not on the high seas.” “But you are on dry land. Please make a dot on your map at 51° 14′ 9″ South, and 74° 59′ 3″ West. That is the present position of the ship. Are you listening, Boyle? According to the chart, the ship is high and dry, four miles inland.” “Huh!” grunted Boyle. “Reminds me of a skipper I once sailed with, bound from Rotterdam to Hull in ballast. There was a Scotch mist best part of the trip, an’ the old man loaded with schnapps to keep out the damp. First time he got a squint of the sun he went as yaller as a Swede turnip. ‘It’s all up with us, boys,’ he said. ‘My missus is forty fathoms below. We’ve just sailed over York.’ You see, he’d made a mistake of a few degrees.” “Boyle,” said Courtenay, severely, “what has come to you? Are you actually making a joke?” “I think I must have bin tongue-tied before, captain.” “Before what?” “Before that lame duck in the fo’c’sle stuck his tobacco-cutter into my jaw. I can talk like a prize parrot now—can’t I, Miss Maxwell?” Elsie was laughing, but she remembered the subject on which Boyle had displayed his new-found power of speech; and human parrots are apt to say too much. “Please don’t tell any more funny little stories,” she cried, “or I shall be putting dots in the wrong places.”