example, if we tip off the authorities, what is to prevent those on the Devonshire from hearing the messages and acting accordingly? And if we don’t know the course they’re actually taking, how can we shift ours in such a way as to make them feel sure we have abandoned the chase? Finally, how will we know what port they intend entering? They might sail for Europe or Asia or the South Seas, for all we know.”

“Well, you’ve stumped me on the first question, I admit,” chuckled the diver. “That’s your business Mr. Pauling--have to use some cipher I suppose. But the others are easy. If we send radio messages to some nearby port that we’re coming in--asking to have supplies or stores ready, for instance--those Bolsheviks will bite all right. And as far as knowing what port they’ll head for is concerned, if they think they’re not being chased they’ll go to the port where there’s the least danger and that’s where the ship’s papers are made out for--Trinidad or Demerara.”

“By Jove! I don’t know but what you’re right,” exclaimed Mr. Pauling. “I think I can arrange the cipher messages--in fact, in confidence, I can let you know that a code was all arranged long before we left St. Thomas. Every executive of every British and French colony down here knows it. We had reasons for not giving it to the Dutch in view of the suspicious actions of that Dutch tramp--and I’ll guarantee if the Devonshire puts into any British or French port, our piratical ‘reds’ will find they’ve stepped into a trap that’s set and baited.”

By the time Robinson reappeared on deck, looking a very different being from the haggard, dull-eyed seaman who had been rescued from the Devonshire’s boat, Mr. Pauling had conferred with Commander Disbrow and plans had been made in accordance with Rawlins’ suggestion. Robinson, when told of this, agreed with the diver that doubtless the “reds” intended sailing the Devonshire boldly into some port and then slipping away, one at a time. He also declared that he believed they would steam for either Trinidad or Demerara, as the ship’s papers were made out for those ports. In order to consult with him and secure his opinions, it was of course necessary to acquaint him somewhat with the activities of the fugitives, but he asked no questions and made no effort to learn more of Mr. Pauling’s mission than the latter saw fit to divulge.

“Was the Devonshire ever in Trinidad or Demerara, Mr. Robinson?” inquired Mr. Pauling. “That is, with Captain Masters and the other officers in command?”

“Not as far as I know,” replied the other. “I’ve been on her for three years and this is my first trip out here. She’s always been in the East Indian trade heretofore.”

“Ah, then that makes it still easier for the rascals,” commented Mr. Pauling. “They can readily pass themselves off for the ship’s officers. By the way, can you describe the appearance of any of the men who boarded the ship?”

“Strike me, Sir, but I was too struck ’twixt wind and water to take note of their appearance,” declared the officer. “I do remember one who appeared to be in command, however--a big chappie with a red beard.”

“That’s the one!” cried Rawlins. “By glory, I’d like to get my hands on him!”

“So would I, old thing,” declared Robinson. “But why the bally pirates let us free is a stumper for me. They might have known some ship might pick us up and we’d give the bloomin’ gaff away.”

“Yes, that is a puzzle,” agreed Mr. Henderson, “but I suppose even men of their type have a limit to the murders they commit.”

It had been decided to make for Dominica, partly because it was the nearest British island and the survivors of the Devonshire could be cared for there, and partly because Mr. Pauling and Mr. Henderson were anxious to see and talk with the officials regarding the looting of the bank, which had occurred some time before and which they believed had been done by the same gang of rascals they were trailing.

By the middle of the afternoon land was sighted, an opalescent, hazy mass topped by great banks of clouds and looking, as Tom expressed it, “more like a dream island than real land.”

As the destroyer drew rapidly nearer and sky-piercing peaks, vast blue gorges, endless forest-clad mountains, and wonderful golden-green valleys appeared, it looked more and more like a dream or a phantasy, for the boys could hardly believe that anything real could be so beautiful. Still it was far away and as the little warship slid smoothly through the incredibly blue sea that showed scarcely a wave in the massive island’s lee, the boys stood gazing steadfastly at this most picturesque and lovely of all the lovely Caribbean islands.

“Gosh, but I’m glad we decided to come here!” exclaimed Frank as Rawlins joined them at the rail. “When you told us back at Statia that St. Kitts couldn’t compare with Dominica I thought you were just joking, but gee, this is simply wonderful!”

“I’ll say ’tis!” replied the diver. “Every time I see it I get a new thrill. And you’ll find it mighty interesting, too. It was right off Dominica that Rodney licked the French and changed the history of the West Indies. There’s a mountain lake in a crater and an active volcano called the Boiling Lake here and over on the other side there’s an Indian settlement where the last pure-blooded Caribs in the West Indies live.”

“Oh, I do hope we stay long enough to see some of the place!” cried Tom.

“Why couldn’t we have been here instead of at St. Thomas or St. John?”

“Perhaps, if you’d radioed the skipper of the Dutch tramp or the red-bearded chap, they might have accommodated you and come here,” laughed Mr. Pauling who had approached. “But, joking aside, I’d like to see more of Dominica myself. It’s certainly a glorious sight.”

“What do they raise here?” asked Mr. Henderson, who had also joined the group.

“Limes mostly,” replied Rawlins. “The famous Rose lime juice all comes from Dominica. Father used to come here regularly for green limes and juice. It’s the biggest lime producing country in the world, I’ve heard him say.”

“Oh, I see the town!” cried Frank. “Right there at the mouth of that big valley!”

“Yes, that’s Roseau,” said Rawlins. “Not much of a town, but with a mighty fine botanic station. And you’ll find the natives interesting, too. Lots of them still wear the old creole dress and they all speak a queer Frenchy sort of lingo called Patois.”

“Why, I thought it was an English island,” exclaimed Tom.

“So ’tis,” the diver assured him. “But lots of the people don’t speak English. It’s been French and British by turn and it’s between two French islands--Guadeloupe and Martinique--and the country people and most of the town’s people are more French than British.”

The island was now in plain view and as the sun sank into the west, the great masses of clouds above the deep green mountains turned slowly to gold and then to rosy pink; the vast gorges and ravines took on shades of violet and deep purple; the sea appeared like a sheet of amethyst, and as the destroyer slowly lost headway and her anchor plunged overboard, a magnificent rainbow sprang as if by magic from mountain side to mountain side, spanning the valley with a multicolored bridge.

Even before the destroyer’s anchor had splashed into the sea and the rattle and roar of her chains echoed from the hills, she was surrounded by a flotilla of gayly painted small boats. Some were ordinary rowboats, but many were queer-looking little craft, like big canoes with projecting bows like the rams of old style warships and one and all were manned by pleasant-faced, brown-skinned natives who gabbled and chattered in a strange, utterly unintelligible jargon. But before the boys had more than a glimpse of the boats and