"Why does the sun shine? Why does the fire burn? You ask too many questions, Tod." "I am not likely to get an answer from you," snapped Macandrew, taking up the impedimenta which they had brought to the river bank. "You will in this instance, my son. The record, when it talks through the Jekle & Co. machine, will tell us why the cylinder was sent downstream. Shipwrecked people throw bottles overboard with documents to tell of their danger, as you well know." "H'm! It's the first time I ever heard of a phonograph record being used to convey news," grunted Tod crossly. "The person who floated the cylinder is evidently up-to-date." "Perhaps it's a blessed joke." "Maybe. Anyhow, I'll take it to the inn, and learn as much as is possible. Don't chatter about it though." "Why not?" "Because--because----" Haskins hesitated, not being able to express himself with his usual decision. "I can't say. Anyhow, hold your tongue until we know what the record has to say." Macandrew nodded, and the two walked homeward. CHAPTER II. THE MESSAGE. "The Devon Maid" was a tumbledown inn, and the center of Denleigh village, which lay, more or less concealed, among the folds of fertile hills. Down the valley prattled a shallow stream, and the comparatively few cottages, forming the secluded hamlet, were placed confusedly on either side, each having its own tiny garden. A broad stone bridge, of cyclopean build, spanned the brook in one low arch. Across this ran the highway, which gave access to the interior world, for it dipped down one hill and, after passing over the bridge, ascended the other on its way inland to even more remote villages. Near the bridge in question stood the two-story inn, built of rugged stone, hewn into huge blocks, and roofed with curved red tiles, the whole overgrown with ivy and wisteria and many-colored roses. With three narrow windows above and two narrow windows with a moderately wide door below, the house looked sullen and secretive. One could have an adventure at such a hostel: it breathed the spirit of romance, and cut-throat, trapdoor romance at that. Before the inn stood a horse trough, in front of the door, the two rude benches under the windows. But those who frequented the Devon Maid preferred to take their beer mugs and bovine conversation on to the bridge. It was their Rialto, whereon they met in the cool of the evening to discuss the doings of their small world, and such news as might filter into the isolated villages through carriers and tourists and newspapers. The population of Denleigh consisted almost wholly of agricultural laborers and their wives, a slow-thinking lot, with infinitely more muscle than brains. Both men and women were of great stature, and even their children looked bulky and overgrown for their age. It seemed as though the children of Anak had gathered to design a new Tower of Babel.