“There’s a fortune in her! I’m going to find her if she’s on this island. Come on with me, will you?”

Nothing loath, Jack Bigelow fared forth behind the theatrical man, whom he had never seen before that afternoon, and whom he never expected to see again. They hurried down one of the narrow, shadowy roads that almost made a labyrinth of the island. But fortune was with them. A turn in the road, which showed the waters of the bay not fifty yards ahead, revealed just in front of them two figures—two women—both small, but one a trifle taller than her companion.

“Hi there! You!” shouted the manager, who, though among a people whose civilization was older than his own, considered them but heathen, and gave them the scant courtesy deserved by all so benighted in matters theatrical. The two figures suddenly stopped.

“Are you the girl who sang?”

“Yes,” came the answer in a clear voice from the taller figure.

The manager was not slow in coming to the point.

“Would you like to be rich?”

Again the positive monosyllable, uttered with much eagerness.

“Good!” The manager’s face could not be seen, but his satisfaction was revealed in his voice. “Just come with me to America, and your fortune’s made!”

She stood silent, her head down, so that the manager prompted her impatiently: “Well?”