“Yes,” said the girl, as, with her father, she led her strange charge away toward the Sand Spit station. 

 “Now,” said Haynes to Colton, “will you come up on the cliff and look at my man?” 

 Together they clambered to the top. In the light of the dying fire they saw the man stretched out near the brink of the cliff. 

 Another of the wrecked sailors and two life-savers stood over him. One of the life-savers Colton recognised as the guard who had come over to speak to Helga Johnston, a hulking, handsome fellow named Serdholm, from the Sand Spit station. The other was a quiet-looking young fellow of the Blue Hill corps, Bruce by name. As Haynes and Colton approached, Bruce drew away a coat which was spread over the prostrate figure, and lifted his lantern. 

 “He is dead,” said Colton at once. 

 “Yes,” replied Haynes; “but see how he came by his death.” 

 Rolling the body over, he exposed a deep, broad, clean-driven wound through the back. “What do you make of that?” he asked. 

 Colton examined it carefully. “I don’t make anything of it,” he said frankly, “except that the poor fellow never knew what struck him.” 

 “What did strike him?” 

 “A very large blade, sent home with tremendous force, apparently.” 

 “By some other person?” 

 “Certainly not by himself; and it doesn’t seem like accident. Was he washed ashore this way?” 

 “Supposing I told you that the man left the ship, alive and sound in the breeches-buoy, and got here in this condition.” 

 “Does the buoy carry more than one at a time?” 

 “No.” 

 “Then it isn’t possible.” 

 “Well, there’s plenty of evidence as to his arrival. Now let’s see about his departure. Were you aboard when this man left the schooner?” Haynes asked, turning to one of the two sailors at hand. 

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