“The poor man!” said Herbert, returning from the door, after having watched Ayrton slide down the rope of the elevator and disappear in the darkness. “He will come back,” said Smith. “What does it mean?” exclaimed Pencroff. “That he had not thrown this bottle into the sea? Then who did it?” Certainly, if there was a reasonable question this was. “He did it,” replied Neb; “only the poor fellow was half out of his senses at the time.” “Yes,” said Herbert, “and he had no knowledge of what he was doing.” “It can be explained in no other way, my friends,” responded Smith, hurriedly, “and I understand, now, how Ayrton was able to give the exact situation of the island, since the events prior to his abandonment gave him that knowledge.” “Nevertheless,” observed Pencroff, “he was not a brute when he wrote that paper, and if it is seven or eight years since it was thrown into the sea, how is it that the paper has not been injured by moisture?” “It proves,” said Smith, “that Ayrton retained possession of his faculties to a period much more recent than he imagines.” “That must be it,” replied Pencroff, “for otherwise the thing would be inexplicable.” “Inexplicable, indeed,” answered the engineer, who seemed not to wish to prolong this talk. “Has Ayrton told the truth?” questioned the sailor. “Yes,” answered the reporter, “the history he has related is true in every particular. I remember, perfectly well, that the papers reported Lord Glenarvan’s undertaking and its result.” “Ayrton has told the truth,” added Smith, “without any doubt, Pencroff, since it was trying enough for him to do so. A man does not lie when he accuses himself in this way.” The next day—the 21st—the colonists went down to the beach, and then clambered up to the plateau, but they saw nothing of Ayrton. The man had gone to his house the night before, and they judged it best not to intrude upon him. Time would, doubtless, effect what sympathy would fail to accomplish. Herbert, Pencroff, and Neb resumed their accustomed occupations; and it happened that their work brought Smith and Spilett together at the Chimneys. “Do you know, Cyrus, that your explanation of yesterday about the bottle does not satisfy me at all? It is impossible to suppose that this unhappy creature could have written that paper, and thrown the bottle into the sea, without remembering anything about it!” “Consequently, it is not he who threw it there, my dear Spilett!” “Then you believe—” “I believe nothing, I know nothing!” replied Smith, interrupting the reporter. “I place this incident with those others which I have not been able to explain!” “In truth, Cyrus,” said Spilett, “these things are incredible. Your rescue, the box thrown up on the beach, Top’s adventures, and now this bottle. Will we never have an answer to these enigmas?” “Yes,” answered the engineer, earnestly, “yes, when I shall have penetrated the bowels of this island!” “Chance will, perhaps, give us the key to this mystery.”