The light could be seen no more than a hundred feet away among the palms. They climbed hastily from the plane. A figure was coming forward along the beach at a run; a slight figure in wide trousers of white cloth, and a short, flapping jacket. "Loto!" shouted George. "That you, Loto?" From a distance came a faint, "Hello-o... George!" The runner increased his speed. It was Loto. "Well," he exclaimed, as he shook their hands. "You got here right away, didn't you? I've only had that light up two or three hours." "We're tired out," said Rogers, when the greetings were over. "Do we stay in the plane or can we leave it?" A man was standing fearfully at the edge of the green jungle nearby, and Loto called him forward. He was dressed in wide trousers, like Loto's except that they were smeared with dirt and sand, and his feet and torso were bare. He came, timidly, and Loto spoke to him apart. The man nodded his head, indicating that he understood his orders. Then he trotted away, joining three or four others of his kind, gesticulating toward the plane. They all approached it reluctantly. George plucked at the flaring sleeve of Loto's short jacket, his only garment above the waist. "How's Azeela, Loto? Is she...is everything all right?" "Yes, she's all right. But I needed you and father here. Wait! Not now. I'll tell you later." Rogers joined them. "We're about exhausted, Loto. We must have some sleep." "Yes, of course. I knew you'd be. I've a house near here--only a hundred yards or so. They'll guard the plane." His gesture indicated the men who were now on the sand, moving about the plane, but evidently afraid to touch it. "You can trust them?" "Implicitly." They followed Loto. George was tired, but so excited that he did not realize it. The night air was warm and heavy with moisture. It was oppressive; it reminded him somehow of the steam room of a Turkish bath. He found himself perspiring. They left the moonlit beach and, following a tiny, white-sand path, plunged into the depths of the jungle. Palms of every variety stood about, their graceful fronds interlacing overhead. There were huge trees loaded with fruit, bananas, mangoes, grapefruit. Some of the other fruit trees George dimly remembered having heard of but could not name, and still others he was sure were entirely new. It was dark in the jungle here, and very silent. The steamy air was redolent with perfume--orange blossoms, George thought. The light signal was nowhere to be seen. George wondered if it had burned out, or if Loto had ordered those men to extinguish it. "Here we are," said Loto abruptly. A house was standing at their right, in an open space with the moonlight gleaming on it--a large, tropical-looking bungalow. There was a broad veranda on three sides, with windows opening into the house. The house itself was raised some four feet off the ground on coconut posts, and a brown-thatched roof spread over everything like a mound.