Jackson laughed madly. “You’ve run things just about long enough,” he grated. “We’ve been driftin’ in this wreck for two weeks now and I’m dog tired of it. I ain’t no sailor, but I know when a man’s givin’ me the double cross, and you’re doin’ it. You’ve got to get us out of this.” Howard’s face grew dark. “Kindly specify?” he said. The other glared at him. “Don’t you try to bluff me with your big words,” he shouted. “I won’t have it. You’ve been lettin’ on that you wanted to get us out of this and all the time you’ve been lettin’ us drift deeper in. You don’t want us to get away at all, for all your smooth talk.” “I told you that I was helpless until we reached the central mass of wrecks and----” “Yah! You and your mass of wrecks! I ain’t no come-on. You can’t work no con game on me. I never took no stock in those fairy tales, but I thought I’d let you play your game out. Now I’m tired of it, and it’s up to you to do something quick!” Howard shrugged his shoulders. “With pleasure,” he agreed, “if you’ll kindly tell me what to do.” “How do I know? I ain’t no sailor. You are! And you’re going straight back to your state-room and stay there till you study out some plan to get us out of this. You belong in quod, anyway, and you’re going to stay there--with the bracelets on, too, until you get us out of this. March, now.” But Howard shook his head. “I’ll never wear irons again,” he declared. “Never! You’re armed and I’m not. You can kill me, but you can’t jail me. Make up your mind to that. As for the central mass of wrecks, it must exist; it’s impossible that it should not exist. The only question is as to the area it covers. If you can---- By Jove!” His eyes left the detective’s face and travelled into space. “Fool,” he cried, “look yonder.” Jackson laughed scornfully. “Not good enough,” he cried. “You can’t fool----” But Dorothy broke in. “Land! Land!” she cried. In spite of himself the detective looked around. Through the haze before them loomed what seemed to be the bulk of an island, set with lofty tiers and dark beaches on which white houses gleamed in the setting sun. So real it seemed that the happy tears streamed from Dorothy’s eyes. “Oh!” she sobbed, “it’s land! land! land!” Howard’s voice came to her from afar off. “No,” he murmured, sadly. “It is not land. It is wreckage. We have reached our destination.” Moved by a slight breeze, the haze shredded away and there, on the waters before them, stretching away to right and to left, lay an interminable mass of wrecks of every shape and description, banked together so thickly that they seemed to touch--and did touch--each other. Dead! all of them. Some newly dead; others long dead; but all unburied, waiting in the haven of dead ships for the long-deferred end. The trees were not trees, but masts hung with ravelled cordage; the beaches were the black hulls of ships; and the white houses were deck-houses or patches of canvas.