Mr. Chalk gained the farther beach unmolested and, half crazy with fear, ran along blindly. Footsteps, which he hoped were those of his friends, pounded away behind him, and presently Stobell, panting heavily, called to him to stop. Mr. Chalk, looking over his shoulder, slackened his pace and allowed him to overtake him.
"Wait—for—Tredgold," said Stobell, breathlessly, as he laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.
Mr. Chalk struggled to free himself. "Where is he?" He gasped.
Stobell, still holding him, stood trying to regain his breath. "They— they must—have got him," he said, at last. "Have you got any of your pistols on you?"
"You threw them all away," quavered Mr. Chalk. "I've only got a knife."
He fumbled with trembling fingers at his belt; Stobell brushing his hand aside drew a sailor's knife from its sheath, and started to run back in the direction of the tent. Mr. Chalk, after a moment's hesitation, followed a little way behind.
"Look out!" he screamed, and stopped suddenly, as a figure burst out of the trees on to the beach a score of yards ahead. Stobell, with a hoarse cry, raised his hand and dashed at it.
"Stobell!" cried a voice.
"It's Tredgold," cried Stobell. He waited for him to reach them, and then, turning, all three ran stumbling along the beach.
They ran in silence until they reached the other end of the island. So far there were no signs of pursuit, and Stobell, breathing hard from his unwonted exercise, collected a few lumps of coral and piled them on the beach.