He ordered the motor dory made ready. No sooner had the yacht dropped anchor than he went to the beach with Teresa. She felt a quivering apprehension of misfortune.
They crossed the level sand and came to the boulders strewn in stark confusion. Teresa saw wreaths of flowers, black and withered, on a yellow mound and the name of Ramon Bazán cut in the face of a huge, rough stone.
With a cry she ran to kneel beside the grave, her face buried in her hands. Her grief was genuine, her remorse a torment that she had been no more affectionate toward this fretful old man who, in his own way, had been fond of her. It was incredible that he should have ceased to live. From childhood she had taken it for granted that he would always continue to sputter and to flit about on his furtive errands. He had seemed as permanent as the ancient house in which he dwelt.
She was bewildered, all adrift. There was nothing to explain it, merely this pitiful grave amid the primeval desolation of Cocos Island. Captain Truscoe was both sympathetic and observant. He was studying the inscription on the boulder. The date was chiseled beneath the name of Ramon Bazán.
“Only two days ago,” said he. “If your information checks up right, Miss Fernandez, they couldn’t have been here much more than a week. And we no more than just missed ’em. A kettle o’ fish and no mistake! Sorry about your uncle. You found him, didn’t you, but it’s a shock.”
“Yes, he will never run away any more,” sadly smiled Teresa. “He was very old, and I suppose it was time for him to rest. But how did he die, Captain Truscoe, and where is Captain Cary and the ship and all her people?”
“Gone somewhere, Miss Fernandez. Would it be back to the Isthmus? How do you feel? Want to go aboard or shall we rummage about?”
They moved away from Ramon Bazán’s boulder and discovered the well-worn road with the wheel ruts, and a clutter of small carts and lumber. In so short a time this road could not have been made by the Valkyrie party.
“Another crowd, but their vessel has gone, too,” said Captain Truscoe. “Here’s a trail off to the left that is fresh cut. That looks more like your outfit.”
They entered the leafy path which had been chopped by the Colombian sailors. They advanced slowly with a certain caution. At length they discovered the devastated camp close to the shattered cliff, a torn upheaved waste of rock and gravel. They found fragments of canvas, bits of clothing, battered cooking-utensils, broken tools scattered far and wide. Captain Truscoe picked up an empty brass shell from a magazine rifle. He tossed it in his hand as he said: