After an hour, perhaps, his feet splashed in shallow water. _That_ was what he was expecting. The water was only an inch or two deep; it was ice cold and running north. Now, he must advance with every caution. For here trickled the thin flow of that rocky rivulet which was the other entrance and exit penetrating that immense horror of marsh and bog and depthless sink-hole known as Drowned Valley. * * * * * For a long while he did not dare to use his torch; but now he was obliged to. He shined the ground at his feet, elevated the torch with infinite precaution, throwing a fan-shaped light over the stretch of sink he had suspected and feared. It flanked the flat, wet path of rock on either side. Here Death spread its slimy trap at his very feet. Then, as he stood taking his bearings with burning torch, far ahead in the darkness a light flashed, went out, flashed twice more, and was extinguished. Quintana! Smith's wits were working like lightning, but instinct guided him before his brain took command. He levelled his torch and repeated the three signal flashes. Then, in darkness, he came to swift conclusion. There were no other signals from the unknown. The stony bottom of the rivulet was his only aid. In his right hand the torch hung almost touching the water. At times he ventured sufficient pressure for a feeble glimmer, then again trusted to his sense of contact. For three hundred yards, counting his strides, he continued on. Then, in total darkness, he pocketed the torch, slid a cartridge into the breech of his rifle, slung the weapon, pulled out a handkerchief, and tied it across his face under the eyes. Now, he drew the torch from his pocket, levelled it, sent three quick flashes out into darkness. Instantly, close ahead, three blinding flashes broke out. For Hal Smith it all had become a question of seconds. Death lay depthless on either hand; ahead Death blocked the trail in silence. Out of the dark some unseen rifle might vomit death in his very face at any moment. He continued to move forward. After a little while his ear caught a slight splash ahead. Suddenly a glare of light enveloped him. "Is it you, Harry Beck?" Instinct led again while wits worked madly: "Harry Beck is two miles back on guard. Where is Sard?" The silence became terrible. Once the glaring light in front moved, then become fixed. There was a light splashing. Instantly Smith realised that the man in front had set his torch in a tree-crotch and was now cowering somewhere behind a levelled weapon. His voice came presently: "He! Drap-a that-a gun damn quick!" Smith bent, leisurely, and laid his rifle on a mossy rock. "Now! You there! Why you want Sard! Eh?" "I'll tell Sard, not you," retorted Smith coolly. "You listen to me, whoever you are. I'm from Sard's office in New York. I'm Abrams. The police are on their way here to find Quintana."