“I think this is a favourable moment to make an explanation,” said Lambaire in his gentlest voice. He addressed himself to the girl, who shifted her gaze from her brother’s face to his. “On the occasion of my last visit here,” he continued, “there was a painful scene, which was not of my seeking. A man I can only describe as a--a----” “Dangerous bloke--fellow,” said Whitey, correcting himself in some confusion. “A dangerous fellow,” repeated Lambaire, “who made wild and reckless charges against my honesty. That man, who has been an inmate of every gaol----” “I do not think you need go into particulars of Mr. Amber’s career.” There was the faintest touch of pink in her cheeks as she changed the course of Lambaire’s speech. “As you wish.” He was irritated, for he was a man of no very great gift of speech, and he had come prepared with his explanation. “I only wish to say this, that the man Amber spoke the truth--though his----” “Deductions?” suggested Whitey _sotto voce_. “Though his deductions were wrong: the compass your father used was a faulty one.” The girl’s eyes did not leave his face. “It was a faulty one,” continued Lambaire, “and it was only yesterday that I discovered the fact. There were four compasses made, two of which your father had, and two I kept locked up in my safe.” “Why was that?” questioned the girl. “That is easily explained,” responded the other eagerly. “I knew that even if Mr. Sutton succeeded, another expedition would be necessary, and, as a business man, I of course bought in a businesslike manner--one buys these instruments cheaper----” “By taking a quantity,” murmured Whitey. “In a sense,” continued Lambaire impressively, “that precaution of mine has made this expedition of your brother’s possible. We are now able to follow in your father’s track--for we shall work by the compass he used.” He felt that his explanation was all that was necessary. More than this, he half believed all that he had said, and felt an inexplicable sense of satisfaction in the realization of his forethought. Cynthia said nothing. She had gone beyond the place where she felt the duty or inclination to oppose her brother’s will. It could be said with truth that her brother and his project had faded into the background, for there had come a newer and a more astounding interest into her life. She did not confess as much to herself. It was the worst kind of madness. A convict--with not even the romantic interest of a great conviction. A mean larcenist, for all the polish of his address, and the gay humour of those honest eyes of his. Her brother would go to the coast in search of the River of Stars. Possibly he might find it: she was sufficiently blessed with the goods of this world not to care whether he did or not. She would like her father’s judgment vindicated, but here again she had no fervency of desire to that end.