“Hooray!” cried Henry Burns, excitedly, for him. “There it is—the old and the new. There’s where he rubbed against the ledge as he made fast, and here’s the evidence all about on these rocks of his new disguise. And there, right close to the bank, are the trees to which he fastened his tackle. If it isn’t just as Miles Burton said, to the letter, then there’s no trusting one’s eyes.” Henry Burns lay flat on a shelving bit of rock, with his face close to the water, and peered down to the bed below. The water was not very clear, but he could discern distinctly a deep, narrow trench in the hard sand, which might have been made by the keel of a boat, if the boat had touched bottom at low water. Any one observing Henry Burns at this moment would have been puzzled indeed. He suddenly sprang up, tore off his jacket and trousers, bared himself in the quickest possible time, and, poising for one brief moment on the brink of the water, dived in. He swam to the bottom with two strokes, clutched at something that lay on the bottom, grasped it in his right hand, came to the surface, and, drawing himself out on land once more, stuffed the object into his trousers pocket and scrambled into his clothing again, as though his life depended on his haste. Then he started on a run for the sand-bar, crossed it, paused never a moment for his basket of fish and clams, and dashed back to the shanty as fast as his legs could carry him. It was not constitutional with Henry Burns, however, to continue long in a state of excitement, and by the time he had regained his companions his composure had returned. Still, they were familiar enough with him to perceive that something unusual had happened. “What’s the matter, Henry?” exclaimed George Warren. “We saw you running along the beach up there as if somebody was after you. We didn’t know but what you had found another burglar.” “No,” replied Henry Burns, “it was the same one.” It was their turn now to become excited. “You don’t mean really——” began George Warren. “Yes, I do,” interrupted Henry Burns. “Say, do you remember the strange black yacht that came into the harbour at the foot of Grand Island the other night, and that was in such a hurry to get out again when it saw us? Well, that was Chambers, and the yacht was the _Eagle_.” “Well, but she was black,” said George Warren, “and she had no topmast. The _Eagle_ was white.” “Yes, but don’t you recall what Burton said about Chambers, what a hand he was for changing a yacht over so she’d look like a different craft? Well, that’s what he has done, and I’ve found the place where he did it. There’s the white paint back there on the edges of the rocks where the yacht rubbed alongside, and the rock is all covered with spots of black paint.” Henry Burns rapidly recounted what he had discovered, including the end of hawser made fast to the tree.