“Sorry I am unable to give you better tidings, my good friend, but, so far as my knowledge extends, nothing has come to light of recent years. And--if not a leading question--were those passengers friends of your own?” “Only--merely my--my wife and little daughter,” came the totally unexpected reply, followed by a forced laugh which sounded anything but mirthful. Uncle Phaeton, intensely chagrined, hastened to apologise for his luckless break, but Cooper Edgecombe cut him short, asking that the matter be let drop for the time being. “I will talk; I feel that I must tell you all, or lose what few wits I have left,” he declared, huskily. “But not right now. It is growing late. You must be hungry. I have no very extensive larder, but with my little will go the gratitude of a man who--” His voice choked, and he left the sentence unfinished, hurrying away to prepare such a meal as his limited means would permit. While Edgecombe was kindling a fire in one corner of the cavern, opening a pile of ashes to extract the few carefully cherished coals by means of which the wood was to be fired, uncle and one nephew left the den to look after the flying-machine and contents. Bruno remained behind, in obedience to a hint from the professor, lest the exile should dread desertion, after all. “Take these in and open them, Waldo,” said the professor, selecting several cans from the stock in the locker. “Poor fellow! 'Twill be like a foretaste of civilisation, just to see and smell, much less taste, the fruit.” “Even if he has turned looney, eh, uncle Phaeton?” “Careful, boy! I hardly think he is just that far gone; but, even if so, what marvel? Think of all he must have suffered during so many long, dreary years! and--his wife and child! I wonder--I do wonder if he really killed--but that is incredible, simply and utterly incredible! An Aztec--here--alive!” “Dead, uncle Phaeton,” corrected Waldo. “Killed the redskin, he said, and I really reckon he meant it. Why not, pray?” “But--an Aztec, boy!” exclaimed the bewildered savant, unable to pass that point. “The tunic of quilted cotton, the escaupil! The maquahuitl, with its blades of grass! The bow and arrows which--all, all surely of Aztecan manufacture, yet seemingly fresh and serviceable as though in use but a month ago! And the race extinct for centuries!” “Well, unless he's a howling liar from 'way up the crick, he extincted one of 'em,” cheerfully commented Waldo, bearing his canned fruit to the cavern. Professor Featherwit followed shortly after, finding the exile busy preparing food, looking and acting far more naturally than he had since his rescue from the whirlpool. And then, until the evening meal was announced, uncle Phaeton hovered near those amazing curiosities, now gazing like one in a waking dream, then gingerly fingering each article in turn, as though hoping to find a solution for his enigma through the sense of touch.