Spilett followed the dog, encouraging and exciting him by his voice; his eye on the alert, his carbine on his shoulder, and availing himself of the shelter of the trees. It was not likely that Top had recognized the presence of a man, for in that case he would have announced it by a half-stifled but angry bark. Since not even a growl was to be heard, the danger was evidently neither near nor approaching. About five minutes had passed in this way, Top ferreting about and the reporter cautiously following him, when the dog suddenly rushed towards a thicket and tore from it a strip of cloth. It was a piece from a garment, dirty and torn. Spilett went back with it to the corral. There the colonists examined it and recognized it as a piece of Ayrton’s waistcoat, which was made of the felt prepared only in the workshop at Granite House. “You see, Pencroff,” observed Smith, “Ayrton resisted manfully, and the convicts dragged him off in spite of his efforts. Do you still doubt his good faith?” “No, Mr. Smith,” replied the sailor; “I have long ago given up that momentary suspicion. But I think we may draw one conclusion from this fact.” “What is that?” “That Ayrton was not killed at the corral. They must have dragged him out alive, and perhaps he is still alive.” “It may be so,” said the engineer, thoughtfully. The most impatient of them all to get back to Granite House was Herbert. He knew how necessary it was for them all to be there, and felt that it was he who was keeping them at the corral. The one thought which had taken possession of his mind was to leave the corral, and to leave it as soon as possible. He believed that he could bear the journey to Granite House. He was sure that his strength would come back to him sooner in his own room, with the sight and the smell of the sea. It was now November 29. The colonists were talking together in Herbert’s room, about 7 o’clock in the morning, when they heard Top barking loudly. They seized their guns, always loaded and cocked, and went out of the house. Top ran to the bottom of the palisade, jumping and barking with joy. “Some one is coming!” “Yes.” “And not an enemy.” “Neb, perhaps?” “Or Ayrton?” These words had scarcely been exchanged between the engineer and his comrade, when something leaped the palisade and fell on the ground inside. It was Jup. Master Jup himself, who was frantically welcomed by Top. “Neb has sent him!” said the reporter. “Then he must have some note on him,” said the engineer. Pencroff rushed to the orang. Neb could not have chosen a better messenger, who could get through obstacles which none of the others could have surmounted. Smith was right. Around Jup’s neck was hung a little bag, and in it was a note in Neb’s handwriting. The dismay of the colonists may be imagined when they read these words:— “FRIDAY, 6 A. M.”—The convicts are on the plateau. NEB.”