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© 2017 Pearson Education, Inc. Hoboken, NJ. All rights reserved.
Exam Practice!
True/False Problems
1. T
2. F
3. T
4. T
5. F
6. T
7. T
Multiple Choice Problems
8. (b)
9. (a)
10. (d)
Program Analysis
11. 1
12. 0
13. 0
14. Results using negative integers may not be as expected.
Memory Snapshot Problems
15. v1-> [double x->1 double y->1 double orientation->3.1415]
v2-> [double x->1 double y->1 double orientation->3.1415]
16. v1-> [double x->0.0 double y->0.0 double orientation->0.0]
v2-> [double x->1 double y->1 double orientation->3.1415]
17. v1-> [double x->2.1 double y->3.0 double orientation->1.6]
v2-> [double x->2.1 double y->3.0 double orientation->1.6]
Programming Problems
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/* Problem chapter6_18 */
/* */
/* This program calls a function that detects and prints the first */
/* n prime integers, where n is an integer input to the function. */
#include <iostream>
using namespace std;
void primeGen(int n);
int main()
{
/* Declare and initialize variables. */
int input;
/* Prompt user for number of prime numbers. */
cout << "nEnter number of primes you would like: ";
cin >> input;
/* Call the function. */
primeGen(input);
return 0;
}
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/* Function to calculate prime numbers. */
void primeGen(int n){
/* Declare variables. */

int i,j;
bool prime;
/* Print header information. */
cout << "Prime Numbers between 1 and " << n << endl;
for (i=1;i<=n;i++){
prime=true;
for (j=2;j<i;j++){
if (!(i%j)) {
prime=false;
}
}
/* Output number if it is prime. */
if (prime)
cout << i << endl;
}
return;
}
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/* */
/* This program calls a function that detects and prints the first */
/* n prime integers, where n is an integer input to the function. */
/* The values are printed to a designated output file. */
#include <iostream>
#include <fstream>
#include <string>
void primeGen(int n, ofstream& file);
int main()
{
/* Declare and initialize variables */
int input;
ofstream outfile;
string filename;
/* Prompt user for number of prime numbers. */
cout << "nEnter number of primes you would like: ";
cin >> input;
/* Prompt user for the name of the output file. */
cout << "nEnter output file name: ";
cin >> filename;
outfile.open(filename.c_str());
if (outfile.fail()) {
cerr << "The output file " << filename << " failed to open.n";
exit(1);
}

primeGen(input, outfile);
outfile.close();
return 0;
}
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/* Function to calculate prime numbers. */
void primeGen(int n, ofstream& out){
int i,j;
bool prime;
/* Print header information. */
out << "Prime Numbers between 1 and " << n << endl;
for (i=1;i<=n;i++){
prime=true;
for (j=2;j<i;j++){
if (!(i%j)) {
prime=false;
}
}
/* Output number if it is prime. */
if (prime)
out << i << endl;
}
return;
}
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/* */
/* This program calls a function that counts the integers in a file */
/* until a non-integer value is found. An error message is printed */
/* if non-integer values are found. */
#include <iostream>
#include <fstream>
#include <string>
int countInts(ifstream& file);
int main()
{
ifstream infile;
string filename;
int numInts;
/* Prompt user for the name of the input file. */

cout << "nEnter input file name: ";
cin >> filename;
infile.open(filename.c_str());
if (infile.fail()) {
cerr << "The input file " << filename << " failed to open.n";
exit(1);
}
numInts = countInts(infile);
/* Print the number of integers. */
cout << numInts << " integers are in the file " << filename << endl;
infile.close();
return 0;
}
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/* Function to count integers. */
int countInts(ifstream& in){
/* Declare and initialize variables. */
int count(0), num;
in >> num;
while (!in.eof()) {
if (!in) {
cerr << "Encountered a non-integer value." << endl;
break;
} else {
count++;
}
in >> num;
}
return count;
}
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/* */
/* This program calls a function that prints the values of the state */
/* flags of a file stream, which is passed to the function as an */
/* argument. */
#include <iostream>
#include <fstream>
#include <string>
void printFlags(ifstream& file);

int main()
{
ifstream infile;
string filename;
/* Prompt user for the name of the input file. */
cout << "nEnter input file name: ";
cin >> filename;
infile.open(filename.c_str());
if (infile.fail()) {
cerr << "The input file " << filename << " failed to open.n";
exit(1);
}
printFlags(infile);
infile.close();
return 0;
}
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/* Function to count integers. */
void printFlags(ifstream& in){
cout << "Badbit: " << in.bad() << endl;
cout << "Failbit: " << in.fail() << endl;
cout << "Eofbit: " << in.eof() << endl;
cout << "Goodbit: " << in.good() << endl;
return;
}
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
Simple Simulations
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/* */
/* This program simulates tossing a "fair" coin. */
/* The user enters the number of tosses. */
#include <iostream>
#include <cstdlib>
int rand_int(int a, int b);
const int HEADS = 1;
const int TAILS = 0;
int main()

{
/* and declare function prototypes. */
int tosses=0, heads=0, required=0;
/* Prompt user for number of tosses. */
cout << "nnEnter number of fair coin tosses: ";
cin >> required;
while (required <= 0)
{
cout << "Tosses must be an integer number, greater than zero.nn";
cout << "Enter number of fair coin tosses: ";
cin >> required;
}
/* Toss coin the required number of times, and keep track of */
/* the number of heads. Use rand_int for the "toss" and */
/* and consider a positive number to be "heads." */
while (tosses < required)
{
tosses++;
if (rand_int(TAILS,HEADS) == HEADS)
heads++;
}
/* Print results. */
cout << "nnNumber of tosses: " << tosses << endl;
cout << "Number of heads: "<< heads << endl;
cout << "Number of tails: " << tosses-heads << endl;
cout << "Percentage of heads: " << 100.0 * heads/tosses << endl;
cout << "Percentage of tails: " << 100.0 * (tosses-heads)/tosses << endl;
/* Exit program. */
return 0;
}
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/* (rand_int function from page 257) */
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/* */
/* This program simulates tossing an "unfair" coin. */
#include <iostream>
#include <cstdlib>
const int HEADS = 10;
const int TAILS = 1;
const int WEIGHT = 6;
int main()
{
/* Declare variables and function prototypes. */

cout << "nnEnter number of unfair coin tosses: ";
cin >> required;
/* Toss coin the required number of times, and */
/* keep track of the number of heads. */
{
tosses++;
if (rand_int(TAILS,HEADS) <= WEIGHT)
heads++;
}
cout << "Number of heads: " << heads << endl;
cout << "Percentage of tails: " << 100.0 * (tosses-heads)/tosses <<
endl;
/* Exit program. */
return 0;
}
/*------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/*------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/* */
/* This program simulates tossing a "fair" coin using Coin class. */
#include <iostream>
#include <cstdlib>
#include "Coin.h"
int main()
{
/* and declare function prototypes. */
int seed;
cout << "nnEnter number of fair coin tosses: ";
cin >> required;
{
cout << "Tosses must be an integer number, greater than zero.nn";
cout << "Enter number of fair coin tosses: ";
cin >> required;
}

/* Toss coin the required number of times, and keep track of */
/* the number of heads. Use rand_int for the "toss" and */
/* and consider a positive number to be "heads." */
cout << "enter a seed..";
cin >> seed;
srand(seed);
{
tosses++;
Coin c1;
if (c1.getFaceValue() == Coin::HEADS)
heads++;
}
cout << "Number of heads: "<< heads << endl;
cout << "Percentage of tails: " << 100.0 * (tosses-heads)/tosses << endl;
/* Exit program. */
return 0;
}
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/*---------------------------------------------------*
/* Definition of a Coin class */
/* Coin.h
#include <iostream>
#include <cstdlib> //required for rand()
class Coin
{
private:
char faceValue;
public:
static const int HEADS = 'H';
static const int TAILS = 'T';
//Constructors
Coin() {int randomInt = rand_int(0,1);
if(randomInt == 1)
faceValue = HEADS;
else
faceValue = TAILS;}
//Accessors
char getFaceValue() const {return faceValue;}
//Mutators
//Coins are not mutable
};
/*----------------------------------------------------*/
/* This function generates a random integer */
/* between specified limits a and b (a<b). */
int rand_int(int a, int b)

{
return rand()%(b-a+1) + a;
}
/*----------------------------------------------------*/
/*------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/* */
/* This program simulates rolling a six-sided "fair" die. */
/* The user enter the number of rolls. */
#include <iostream>
#include <cstdlib>
const int MIN = 1;
const int MAX = 6;
int main()
{
/* Declare variables and function prototypes. */
int onedot=0, twodots=0, threedots=0, fourdots=0, fivedots=0,
sixdots=0, rolls=0, required=0;
/* Prompt user for number of rolls. */
cout << "nnEnter number of fair die rolls: ";
cin >> required;
/* Roll the die as many times as required */
while (rolls < required)
{
rolls++;
switch(rand_int(MIN,MAX))
{
case 1: onedot++;
break;
case 2: twodots++;
break;
case 3: threedots++;
break;
case 4: fourdots++;
break;
case 5: fivedots++;
break;
case 6: sixdots++;
break;
default:
cout << "nDie roll result out of range!n";
exit(1);
break;
}
}
/* Print the results. */
cout << "nNumber of rolls: " << rolls << endl;

cout << "Number of ones: " << onedot << " percentage: "
<< 100.0*onedot/rolls << endl;
cout << "Number of twos: " << twodots << " percentage: "
<< 100.0*twodots/rolls << endl;
cout << "Number of threes: " << threedots << " percentage: "
<< 100.0*threedots/rolls << endl;
cout << "Number of fours: " << fourdots << " percentage: "
<< 100.0*fourdots/rolls << endl;
cout << "Number of fives: " << fivedots << " percentage: "
<< 100.0*fivedots/rolls << endl;
cout << "Number of sixes: " << sixdots << " percentage: "
<< 100.0*sixdots/rolls << endl;
/* Exit program. */
return 0;
}
/*------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/*------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/*------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/* */
/* This program simulates an experiment rolling two six-sided */
/* "fair" dice. The user enters the number of rolls. */
#include <iostream>
#include <cstdlib>
const int MAX = 6;
const int MIN = 1;
const int TOTAL = 8;
int main()
{
int rolls=0, die1, die2, required=0, sum=0;
/* Prompt user for number of rolls. */
cout << "nnEnter number of fair dice rolls: ";
cin >> required;
/* Roll the die as many times as required. */
while (rolls < required)
{
rolls++;
die1=rand_int(MIN,MAX);
die2=rand_int(MIN,MAX);
if (die1+die2 == TOTAL)
sum++;
cout << "Results: " << die1 << " " << die2 << endl;
}
/* Print the results. */

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cout << "nNumber of rolls: " << rolls << endl;
cout << "Number of " << TOTAL << "s: " << sum << endl;
cout << "Percentage of " << TOTAL << "s: " << 100.0*sum/rolls << endl;
/* Exit program. */
return 0;
}
/*------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/* (rand_int function from text) */
/*------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/*------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/* */
/* This program simulates a lottery drawing that uses balls */
/* numbered from 1 to 10. */
#include <iostream>
#include <cstdlib>
const int MIN = 1;
const int MAX = 10;
const int NUMBER = 7;
const int NUM_BALLS = 3;
int main()
{
/* Define variables. */
unsigned int alleven = 0, num_in_sim = 0, onetwothree = 0, first,
second, third;
int lotteries = 0, required = 0;
/* Prompt user for the number of lotteries. */
cout << "nnEnter number of lotteries: ";
cin >> required;
{
cout << "The number of lotteries must be an integer number, "
<< "greater than zero.nn";
cout << "Enter number of lotteries: ";
cin >> required;
}
/* Get three lottery balls, check for even or odd, and NUMBER. */
/* Also check for the 1-2-3 sequence and its permutations. */
while (lotteries < required)
{
lotteries++;
/* Draw three unique balls. */
first = rand_int(MIN,MAX);
do
second = rand_int(MIN,MAX);
while (second == first);

do
third = rand_int(MIN,MAX);
while ((second==third) || (first==third));
cout << "Lottery number is: " << first << "-" << second
<< "-" << third << endl;
/* Are they all even? */
if ((first % 2 == 0) && (second % 2 == 0) && (third %2 == 0))
alleven++;
/* Are any of them equal to NUMBER? */
if ((first == NUMBER) || (second==NUMBER) || (third == NUMBER))
num_in_sim++;
/* Are they 1-2-3 in any order? */
if ((first <= 3) && (second <= 3) && (third <= 3))
if ((first != second) && (first != third) && (second != third))
onetwothree++;
}
cout << "nPercentage of time the result contains three even numbers:"
<< 100.0*alleven/lotteries << endl;
cout << "Percentage of time the number " << NUMBER << " occurs in the"
" three numbers: " << 100.0*num_in_sim/lotteries << endl;
cout << "Percentage of time the numbers 1,2,3 occur (not necessarily"
" in order): " << 100.0*onetwothree/lotteries << endl;
/* Exit program. */
return 0;
}
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
Component Reliability
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/* */
/* This program simulates the design in Figure 6-17 using a */
/* component reliability of 0.8 for component 1, 0.85 for */
/* component 2 and 0.95 for component 3. The estimate of the */
/* reliability is computed using 5000 simulations. */
/* (The analytical reliability of this system is 0.794.) */
#include <iostream>
#include <cstdlib>
const int SIMULATIONS = 5000;
const double REL1 = 0.8;
const int MIN_REL = 0;
const int MAX_REL = 1;

double rand_float(double a, double b);
int main()
{
int num_sim=0, success=0;
double est1, est2, est3;
/* Run simulations. */
for (num_sim=0; num_sim<SIMULATIONS; num_sim++)
{
/* Get the random numbers */
est1 = rand_float(MIN_REL,MAX_REL);
/* Now test the configuration */
if ((est1<=REL1) && ((est2<=REL2) || (est3<=REL3)))
success++;
}
cout << "Simulation Reliability for " << num_sim << " trials: "
<< (double)success/num_sim << endl;
/* Exit program. */
return 0;
}
/*-------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/* (rand_float function from page 257) */
/*-------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/* */
/* This program simulates the design in Figure 6.18 using a */
/* component reliability of 0.8 for components 1 and 2, */
/* and 0.95 for components 3 and 4. Print the estimate of the */
/* reliability using 5000 simulations. */
#include <iostream>
#include <cstdlib>
int main()
{

double est1, est2, est3, est4;
{
/* Get the random numbers. */
/* Now test the configuration. */
if (((est1<=REL12) && (est2<=REL12)) ||
((est3<=REL34) && (est4<=REL34)))
success++;
}
/* Exit program. */
return 0;
}
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/* */
/* This program simulates the design in Figure 6.19 using a */
/* component reliability of 0.95 for all components. Print the */
/* estimate of the reliability using 5000 simulations. */
#include <iostream>
#include <cstdlib>
const double REL = 0.95;
int main()
{
double est1, est2, est3, est4;

{
/* Get the random numbers. */
/* Now test the configuration. */
if (((est1<=REL) || (est2<=REL)) || ((est3<=REL) && (est4<=REL)))
success++;
}
/* Exit program. */
return 0;
}
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/*--------------------------------------------------------------------*/
/* */
/* This program generates a data file named wind.dat that */
/* contains one hour of simulated wind speeds. */
#include <iostream>
#include <fstream>
#include <cstdlib>
#include <string>
const int DELTA_TIME = 10;
const int START_TIME = 0;
const int STOP_TIME = 3600;
const string FILENAME = "wind.dat";
int main()
{
int timer=START_TIME;
double ave_wind=0.0, gust_min=0.0, gust_max=0.0, windspeed=0.0;
ofstream wind_data;
/* Open output file. */
wind_data.open(FILENAME.c_str());
/* Prompt user for input and verify. */
cout << "Enter average wind speed: ";
cin >> ave_wind;

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reminded me not a little of the Italian lakes. Shrubs and trees and
flowers before the houses spoke in their turn of the tropics; the air
was heavy with the perfume of a Southern garden; the atmosphere
moist and penetrating, but always warm. Knowing absolutely
nothing of the place, I turned to an officer of the Customs for
guidance. Where was the best hotel, and how did one reach it? His
answer astonished me beyond all expectation.
“The best hotel, señor,” he said, “is the Villa San Jorge. Am I
wrong in supposing that you are the Englishman for whom General
Fordibras is waiting?”
I concealed my amazement with what skill I could, and said that
I was delighted to hear that General Fordibras had returned from
Europe. If the intimation alarmed me, I would not admit as much to
myself. These people, then, knew of my movements since I had
quitted Dieppe? They expected me to visit Santa Maria! And this was
as much as to say that Joan Fordibras had been their instrument,
though whether a willing or an unconscious instrument I could not
yet determine. The night would show me—the night whose unknown
fortunes I had resolved to confront, let the penalty be what it might.
“I will go up to the Villa at once,” I said to the Customs officer. “If
a carriage is to be had, let them get it ready without loss of time.”
He replied that the Villa San Jorge lay five miles from the town,
on the slope of the one inconsiderable mountain which is the pride
of the island of Santa Maria. It would be necessary to ride, and the
General had sent horses. He trusted that I would bring my servants,
as they would be no embarrassment to his household. The cordiality
of the message, indeed, betrayed an anxiety which carried its own
warning. I was expected at the house and my host was in a hurry.
Nothing could be more ominous.
“Does the General have many visitors from Europe?” I asked the
officer.
“A great many sometimes,” was the reply; “but he is not always
here, señor. There are months together when we do not see him—so
much the worse for us.”
“Ah! a benefactor to the town, I see.”

“A generous, princely gentleman, Excellency—and his daughter
quite a little queen amongst us.”
“Is she now at the Villa San Jorge?”
“She arrived from Europe three days ago, Excellency.”
I had nothing more to ask, and without the loss of a moment I
delivered my dressing-bag to the negro servant who approached me
in the General’s name, and mounted the horse which a smart French
groom led up to me. Okyada, my servant, being equally well cared
for, we set off presently from the town, a little company, it may be,
of a dozen men, and began to ride upward toward the mountains. A
less suspicious man, one less given to remark every circumstance,
however trivial, would have found the scene entirely delightful. The
wild, tortuous mountain path, the clear sky above, the glittering
rocks becoming peaks and domes of gold in the moonbeams, the
waving torches carried by negroes, Portuguese, mulattoes, men of
many nationalities who sang a haunting native chant as they went—
here, truly, was the mask of romance if not its true circumstance.
But I had eyes rather for the men themselves, for the arms they
carried, the ugly knives, the revolvers that I detected in the holsters.
Against what perils of that simple island life were these weapons
intended? Should I say that these men were assassins, and that I
had been decoyed to the island to be the subject of a vulgar and
grotesquely imprudent crime? I did not believe it. The anchor light of
the White Wings, shining across the water, stood for my salvation.
These men dare not murder me, I said. I could have laughed aloud
at their display of impotent force.
I say that we followed a dangerous path up the hillside; but anon
this opened out somewhat, and having crossed a modern bridge of
iron above a considerable chasm, the forbidding walls of which the
torches showed me very plainly—having passed thereby, we found
ourselves upon a plateau, the third of a mile across, perhaps, and
having for its background the great peak of the mountain itself. How
the land went upon the seaward side I could not make out in the
darkness; but no sooner had we passed the gates than I observed
the lights of a house shining very pleasantly across the park; and
from the cries the men raised, the hastening paces of the horses,

and the ensuing hubbub, I knew that we had reached our
destination, and that this was the home of General Fordibras.
Five minutes later, the barking of hounds, the sudden flash of
light from an open door, and a figure in the shadows gave us
welcome to the Villa San Jorge. I dismounted from my horse and
found myself face to face, not with Hubert Fordibras, but with his
daughter Joan.
She was prettily dressed in a young girl’s gown of white, but one
that evidently had been built in Paris. I observed that she wore no
jewellery, and that her manner was as natural and simple as I might
have hoped it to be. A little shyly, she told me that her father had
been called to the neighbouring island of St. Michaels, and might not
return for three days.
“And isn’t it just awful?” she said, the American phrase coming
prettily enough from her young lips. “Isn’t it awful to think that I
shall have to entertain you all that long while?”
I answered her that if my visit were an embarrassment, I could
return to the yacht immediately—that I had come to see her father,
and that my time was my own. To all of which she replied with one
of those expressive and girlish gestures which had first attracted me
toward her—just an imperceptible shrug of the shoulders and a
pretty pout of protest.
“Why, if you would like to go back, Dr. Fabos⁠
——”
“Don’t say so. I am only thinking of your troubles.”
“Then, you do want to stay?”
“Frankly, I want to stay.”
“Then come right in. And pity our poor cook, who expected you
an hour ago.”
“Really, you should not——”
“What! starve a man who has come all the way from Europe to
see us?”
“Well, I’ll confess to a mountain appetite, then. You can tell the
General how obedient you found me.”
“You shall tell him for yourself. Oh, don’t think you are going
away from him in a hurry. People never do who come to the Villa
San Jorge. They stop weeks and months. It’s just like heaven, you

know—if you know what heaven is like. We have given you
‘Bluebeard’s room,’ because of the cupboard in it—but you may look
inside if you like. Let General Washington show you the way up this
minute.”
“And my servant? I hope he won’t give any trouble. He’s a Jap,
and he lives on rice puddings. If he is in your way, don’t hesitate to
say so.”
“How could he be in the way? Besides, my father quite expected
him.”
“He said so?”
“Yes, and an Irish gentleman—what was his name? The one who
made love to Miss Aston at Dieppe. She’s upstairs now, reading
about the Kings of Ireland. The Irish gentleman told her of the book.
Why, Dr. Fabos, as if you didn’t know! Of course, he made love to
her.”
“In an Irish way, I hope. Perhaps we’ll have him ashore to-
morrow—though I fear he will be a disappointment. His lovemaking
consists largely of quotations from his stories in Pretty Bits. I have
heard him so often. There are at least two hundred women in the
world who are the only women he has ever loved. Put not your faith
in Timothy—at least, beg of Miss Aston to remember that he comes
of a chivalrous but susceptible race.”
“How dare I intrude upon her dream of happiness? She has
already furnished the drawing-room—in imagination, you know.”
“Then let her dream that Timothy has upset the lamp, and that
the house is on fire.”
We laughed together at the absurdity of it, and then I followed a
huge mulatto, whom she called General Washington, upstairs to a
room they had prepared for me. The house, as much as I could see
of it, appeared to be a bungalow of considerable size, but a
bungalow which splayed out at its rear into a more substantial
building carrying an upper storey and many bedrooms there. My
own room was furnished in excellent taste, but without display. The
American fashion of a bathroom adjoining the bedroom had been
followed, and not a bathroom alone, but a delightful little sitting-
room completed a luxurious suite. Particularly did I admire the

dainty painting of the walls (little paper being used at Santa Maria by
reason of the damp), the old English chintz curtains, and the
provision of books both in the sitting and bedroom. Very welcome
also were the many portable electric lamps cunningly placed by the
bedside and upon dainty Louis XV. tables; while the fire reminded
me of an English country house and of the comfort looked for there.
In such a pretty bedroom I made a hasty change, and hearing
musical bells below announcing that supper was ready, I returned to
the hall where Joan Fordibras awaited me. The dining-room of the
Villa San Jorge had the modern characteristics which distinguished
the upper chambers. There were well-known pictures here, and old
Sheffield plate upon the buffet. The chairs were American, and a
little out of harmony with some fine Spanish mahogany and a heavy
Persian carpet over the parquet. This jarring note, however, did not
detract from the general air of comfort pervading the apartment, nor
from its appearance of being the daily living room of a homely
family. Indeed, had one chosen to name the straight-backed Miss
Aston for its mistress and Joan Fordibras for the daughter of the
house, then the delusion was complete and to be welcomed. None
the less could I tell myself that it might harbour at that very moment
some of the greatest villains that Europe had known, and that the
morrow might report my own conversation to them. Never for one
instant could I put this thought from me. It went with me from the
hall to the table. It embarrassed me while I discussed New York and
Paris and Vienna with the “learned woman” basely called the
chaperone; it touched the shoulder of my mind when Joan
Fordibras’s eyes—those Eastern languorous eyes—were turned upon
me, and her child’s voice whispered some nonsense in my ears. A
house of criminals and the greatest receiver in the story of crime for
one of its masters! So I believed then. So, to-day, I know that the
truth stood.
Our talk at the table was altogether of frivolous things. Not by so
much as a look did Mistress Joan recall to me the conversation,
intimate and outspoken, which had passed between us at Dieppe. I
might have been the veriest dreamer to remember it all—the half-
expressed plea for pity on her part, the doubt upon mine. How could

one believe it of this little coquette, prattling of the theatres of Paris,
the shops of Vienna, or the famous Sherry’s of New York. Had we
been a supper party at the Savoy, the occasion could not have been
celebrated with greater levity. Of the people’s history, I learned
absolutely nothing at all that I did not know already. They had a
house on the banks of the Hudson River, an apartment in Paris; in
London they always stayed at hotels. General Fordibras was devoted
to his yacht. Miss Aston adored Jane Austen, and considered the
Imperial Theatre to be the Mecca of all good American ladies.
Nonsense, I say, and chiefly immaterial nonsense. But two facts
came to me which I cared to make a note of. The first of them dealt
with Joan Fordibras’s departure from Dieppe and her arrival at Santa
Maria.
“My, I was cross,” she exclaimed à propos, “just to think that one
might have gone on to Aix!”
“Then you left Dieppe in a hurry?” I commented.
She replied quite unsuspectingly:
“They shot us into the yacht like an expressed trunk. I was in
such a temper that I tore my lace dress all to pieces on the
something or other. Miss Aston, she looked daggers. I don’t know
just how daggers look, but she looked them. The Captain said he
wouldn’t have to blow the siren if she would only speak up.”
“My dear Joan, whatever are you saying? Captain Doubleday
would never so forget himself. He sent roses to my cabin directly I
went on board.”
“Because he wanted you to help navigate the ship, cousin. He
said you were a born seaman. Now, when I go back to London⁠
——”
“Are you returning this winter?” I asked with as much
indifference as I could command. She shook her head sadly.
“We never know where my father is going. It’s always rush and
hurry except when we are here at Santa Maria. And there’s no one
but the parish priest to flirt with. I tried so hard when we first came
here—such a funny little yellow man, just like a monkey. My heart
was half broken when Cousin Emma cut me out.”
“Cousin Emma”—by whom she indicated the masculine Miss
Aston—protested loudly for the second time, and again the talk

reverted to Europe. I, however, had two facts which I entered in my
notebook directly I went upstairs. And this is the entry that I made:
“(1) Joan Fordibras left Dieppe at a moment’s notice. Ergo, her
departure was the direct issue of my own.
“(2) The General’s yacht put out to sea, but returned when I had
left. Ergo, his was not the yacht which I had followed to South
Africa.”
These facts, I say, were entered in my book when I had said
good-night to Joan, and left her at the stair’s foot—a merry, childish
figure, with mischief in her eyes and goodwill toward me in her
words. Whatever purpose had been in the General’s mind when he
brought her to Santa Maria, she, I was convinced, knew nothing of
it. To me, however, the story was as clear as though it had been
written in a master book.
“They hope that I will fall in love with her and become one of
them,” I said. Such an idea was worthy of the men and their
undertaking. I foresaw ripe fruit of it, and chiefly my own salvation
and safety for some days at least.
Willingly would I play a lover’s part if need be. “It should not be
difficult,” I said, “to call Joan Fordibras my own, or to tell her those
eternal stories of love and homage of which no woman has yet
grown weary!”

CHAPTER XIII.
THE CAVE IN THE MOUNTAIN.
Dr. Fabos Makes Himself Acquainted with the Villa San Jorge.
Joan had spoken of a Bluebeard’s cupboard in my bedroom. This
I opened the moment I went up to bed. It stood against the outer
wall of the room, and plainly led to some apartment or gallery
above. The lock of the inner door, I perceived, had a rude
contrivance of wires attached to it. A child would have read it for an
ancient alarm set there to ring a bell if the door were opened. I
laughed at his simplicity, and said that, after all, General Fordibras
could not be a very formidable antagonist. He wished to see how far
my curiosity would carry me in his house, and here was an infantile
device to discover me. I took a second glance at it, and dismissed it
from my mind.
I had gone up to bed at twelve o’clock, I suppose, and it was
now nearly half an hour after midnight. A good fire of logs still
burned in the grate, a hand lamp with a crimson shade stood near
by my bed. Setting this so that I could cast a shadow out upon the
verandah, I made those brisk movements which a person watching
without might have interpreted as the act of undressing, and then,
extinguishing the light and screening the fire, I listened for the
footsteps of my servant, Okyada. No cat could tread as softly as he;
no Indian upon a trail could step with more cunning than this soft-
eyed, devoted, priceless fellow. I had told him to come to me at a
quarter to one, and the hands of the watch were still upon the
figures when the door opened inch by inch, and he appeared, a
spectre almost invisible, a pair of glistening eyes, of white laughing
teeth—Okyada, the invincible, the uncorruptible.
“What news, Okyada?”
He whispered his answer, every word sounding as clearly in my
ears as the notes of a bell across a drowsy river.

“There is that which you should know, master. He is here, in this
house. I have seen him sleeping. Let us go together—the white foot
upon the wool. It would be dangerous to sleep, master.”
I thought that his manner was curiously anxious, for here was a
servant who feared nothing under heaven. To question him further,
when I could ascertain the facts for myself, would have been
ridiculous; and merely looking to my pistols and drawing a heavy
pair of felt slippers over my boots, I followed him from the room.
“Straight down the stairs, master,” he said; “they are watching
the corridors. One will not watch again to-night—I have killed him.
Let us pass where he should have been.”
I understood that he had dealt with one of the sentries as only a
son of Hiroshima could, and, nodding in answer, I followed him
down the stairs and so to the dining-room I had so recently quitted.
The apartment was almost as I had left it an hour ago. Plates and
glasses were still upon the table; the embers of a fire reddened
upon the open hearth. I observed, however, that a shutter of a
window giving upon the verandah had been opened to the extent of
a hand’s-breadth, and by this window it was plain that my servant
meant to pass out. No sooner had we done so than he dexterously
closed the shutter behind him by the aid of a cord and a little
beeswax; and having left all to his satisfaction, he beckoned me
onward and began to tread a wide lawn of grass, and after that, a
pine-wood, so thickly planted that an artificial maze could not have
been more perplexing.
Now it came to me that the house itself did not contain the man
I was seeking nor the sights which Okyada had to show me. This
woodland path led to the wall of the mountain, to the foot of that
high peak visible to every ship that sails by Santa Maria. Here,
apparently, the track terminated. Okyada, crouching like a panther,
bade me imitate him as we drew near to the rock; and approaching
it with infinite caution, he raised his hand again and showed me, at
the cliff’s foot, the dead body of the sentinel who had watched the
place, I made sure, not a full hour ago.
“We met upon the ladder, master,” said my servant, unmoved. “I
could not go by. He fell, master—he fell from up yonder where you

see the fires. His friends are there; we are going to them.”
I shuddered at the spectacle—perhaps was unnerved by it. This
instant brought home to me as nothing else had done the nature of
the quest I had embarked upon and the price which it might be
necessary to pay for success. What was life or death to this criminal
company my imagination had placed upon the high seas and on
such shores as this! They would kill me, if my death could contribute
to their safety, as readily as a man crushes a fly that settles by his
hand. All my best reasoned schemes might not avail against such a
sudden outbreak of anger and reproach as discovery might bring
upon me. This I had been a fool not to remember, and it came to me
in all its black nakedness as I stood at the foot of the precipice and
perceived that Okyada would have me mount. The venture was as
desperate as any a man could embark upon. I know not to this day
why I obeyed my servant.
Let me make the situation clear. The path through the wood had
carried us to a precipice of the mountain, black and stern and
forbidding. Against this a frail iron ladder had been raised and
hooked to the rock by the ordinary clamps which steeplejacks
employ. How far this ladder had been reared, I could not clearly see.
Its thread-like shell disappeared and was quickly lost in the shadows
of the heights; while far above, beyond a space of blackness, a glow
of warm light radiated from time to time from some orifice of the
rock, and spoke both of human presence and human activities. That
the ladder had been closely watched, Okyada had already told me.
Did I need a further witness, the dead body at the cliff’s foot must
have answered for my servant’s veracity. Somewhere in that
tremendous haze of light and shadow the two men had met upon a
foothold terrible to contemplate; their arms had been locked
together; they had uttered no cries, but silently, grimly fighting, they
had decided the issue, and one had fallen horribly to the rocks
below. This man’s absence must presently be discovered. How if
discovery came while we were still upon the ladder from which he
had been hurled? Such a thought, I reflected, was the refuge of a
coward. I would consider it no more, and bidding Okyada lead, I
hastened to follow him to the unknown.

We mounted swiftly, the felt upon our shoes deadening all
sounds. I am an old Alpine climber, and the height had no terrors for
me. Under other circumstances, the fresh bracing air above the
wood, the superb panorama of land and sea would have delighted
me. Down yonder to the left lay Villa do Porto. The anchor-light of
my own yacht shone brightly across the still sea, as though telling
me that my friends were near. The Villa San Jorge itself was just a
black shape below us, lightless and apparently deserted. I say
“apparently,” for a second glance at it showed me, as moving
shadows upon a moonlit path, the figures of the sentinels who had
been posted at its doors. These, had their eyes been prepared, must
certainly have discovered us. It may be that they named us for the
guardian of the ladder itself; it may be that they held their peace
deliberately. That fact does not concern me. I am merely to record
the circumstance that, after weary climbing, we reached a gallery of
the rock and stood together, master and servant, upon a rude bridle-
path, thirty inches wide, perhaps, and without defence against the
terrible precipice it bordered. Here, as in the wood, Okyada crept
apace, but with infinite caution, following the path round the
mountain for nearly a quarter of a mile, and so bringing me without
warning to an open plateau with a great orifice, in shape neither
more nor less than the entrance to a cave within the mountain itself.
I perceived that we had come to our journey’s end, and falling prone
at a signal from my guide, I lay without word or movement for many
minutes together.
Now, there were two men keeping guard at the entrance to the
cave, and we lay, perhaps, within fifty yards of them. The light by
which we saw the men was that which escaped from the orifice itself
—a fierce, glowing, red light, shining at intervals as though a furnace
door had been opened and immediately shut again. The effect of
this I found weird and menacing beyond all experience; for while at
one moment the darkness of ultimate night hid all things from our
view, at the next the figures were outstanding in a fiery aureole, as
clearly silhouetted in crimson as though incarnadined in a
shadowgraph. To these strange sights, the accompaniment of odd
sounds was added—the blast as of wind from a mighty bellows, the

clanging of hammers upon anvils of steel, the low humming voices
of men who sang, bare-armed, as they worked. In my own country,
upon another scene, a listener would have said these were honest
smiths pursuing their calling while other men slept. I knew too much
of the truth to permit myself any delusion. These men worked gold,
I said. There could be no other employment for them.
So with me shall my friends watch upon the mountain and share
both the surprise and the wonder of this surpassing discovery. My
own feelings are scarcely to be declared. The night promised to
justify me beyond all hope; and yet, until I could witness the thing
for myself, justification lay as far off as ever. Indeed, our position
was perilous beyond all words to tell. There, not fifty paces from us,
the sentries lounged in talk, revolvers in their belts, and rifles about
their shoulders. A sigh might have betrayed us. We did not dare to
exchange a monosyllable or lift a hand. Cramped almost beyond
endurance, I, myself, would have withdrawn and gone down to the
house again but for the immovable Okyada, who lay as a stone upon
the path, and by his very stillness betrayed some subtler purpose. To
him it had occurred that the sentries would go upon their patrol
presently. I knew that it might be so, had thought of it myself; but a
full twenty minutes passed before they gave us a sign, and then
hardly the sign I looked for. One of them, rousing himself lazily,
entered the cave and became lost to our view. The other, slinging his
rifle about his shoulders, came deliberately towards us, stealthily,
furtively, for all the world as though he were fully aware of our
presence and about to make it known. This, be it said, was but an
idea of my awakened imagination. Whatever had been designed
against us by the master of the Villa San Jorge, an open assault
upon the mountain side certainly had not been contemplated. The
watchman must, in plain truth, have been about to visit the ladder’s
head to ascertain if all were well with his comrade there. Such a
journey he did not complete. The Jap sprang upon him suddenly, at
the very moment he threatened almost to tread upon us, and he fell
without a single word at my feet as though stricken by some fell
disease which forbade him to move a limb or utter a single cry.

Okyada had caught him with one arm about his throat and a
clever hand behind his knees. As he lay prone upon the rock, he was
gagged and bound with a speed and dexterity I have never seen
imitated. Fear, it may be, was my servant’s ally. The wretched man’s
eyes seemed to start almost out of his head when he found himself
thus outwitted, an arm of iron choking him, and lithe limbs of
incomparable strength roping his body as with bonds of steel.
Certainly, he made no visible effort of resistance, rather consenting
to his predicament than fighting against it; and no sooner was the
last knot of the cord tied than Okyada sprang up and pointed
dramatically to the open door no longer watched by sentries. To gain
this was the work of a moment. I drew my revolver, and, crossing
the open space, looked down deliberately into the pit. The story of
the Villa San Jorge lay at my feet. General Fordibras, I said, had no
longer a secret to conceal from me.
I will not dwell upon those emotions of exultation, perhaps of
vanity, which came to me in that amazing moment. All that I had
sacrificed to this dangerous quest, the perils encountered and still
awaiting me—what were they when measured in the balance of this
instant revelation, the swift and glowing vision with which the night
rewarded me? I knew not the price I would have paid for the
knowledge thus instantly come to my possession.
Something akin to a trance of reflection fell upon me. I watched
the scene almost as a man intoxicated by the very atmosphere of it.
A sense of time and place and personality was lost to me. The great
book of the unknown had been opened before me, and I read on
entranced. This, I say, was the personal note of it. Let me put it
aside to speak more intimately of reality and of that to which reality
conducted me.
Now, the cave of the mountain, I judge, had a depth of some
third of a mile. It was in aspect not unlike what one might have
imagined a mighty subterranean cathedral to have been. Of vast
height, the limestone vault above showed me stalactites of such
great size and infinite variety that they surpassed all ideas I had
conceived of Nature and her wonders.

Depending in a thousand forms, here as foliated corbels, there as
vaulting shafts whose walls had fallen and left them standing, now
as quatrefoils and cusps, sometimes seeming to suggest monster
gargoyles, the beauty, the number, and the magnificence of them
could scarcely have been surpassed by any wonders of limestone in
all the world. That there were but few corresponding stalagmites
rising up from the rocky ground must be set down to the use made
of this vast chamber and the work then being undertaken in it. No
fewer than nine furnaces I counted at a first glance—glowing
furnaces through whose doors the dazzling whiteness of
unspeakable fires blinded the eyes and illuminated the scene as
though by unearthly lanterns.
And there were men everywhere, half-naked men, leather-
aproned and shining as though water had been poured upon their
bodies. These fascinated me as no mere natural beauty of the scene
or the surprise of it had done. They were the servants of the men to
whom I had thrown down the glove so recklessly. They were the
servants of those who, armed and unknown, sailed the high seas in
their flight from cities and from justice. This much I had known from
the first. Their numbers remained to astonish me beyond all
measure.
And of what nature was their task at the furnaces? I had
assumed at the first thought that they were workers in precious
metals, in the gold and silver which the cleverest thieves of Europe
shipped here to their hands. Not a little to my astonishment, the
facts did not at the moment bear out my supposition. Much of the
work seemed shipwright’s business or such casting as might be done
at any Sheffield blast furnace. Forging there was, and shaping and
planing—not a sign of any criminal occupation, or one that would
bear witness against them. The circumstance, however, did not
deceive me. It fitted perfectly into the plan I had prepared against
my coming to Santa Maria, and General Fordibras’s discovery of my
journey. Of course, these men would not be working precious metals
—not at least to-night. This I had said when recollection of my own
situation came back to me suddenly; and realising the folly of further
espionage, I turned about to find Okyada and quit the spot.

Then I discovered that my servant had left the plateau, and that
I stood face to face with the ugliest and most revolting figure of a
Jew it has ever been my misfortune to look upon.

CHAPTER XIV.
VALENTINE IMROTH.
Dr. Fabos Meets the Jew.
Imagine a man some five feet six in height, weak and tottering
upon crazy knees, and walking laboriously by the aid of a stick. A
deep green shade habitually covered protruding and bloodshot eyes,
but for the nonce it had been lifted upon a high and cone-shaped
forehead, the skin of which bore the scars of ancient wounds and
more than one jagged cut. A goat’s beard, long and unkempt and
shaggy, depended from a chin as sharp as a wedge; the nose was
prominent, but not without a suggestion of power; the hands were
old and tremulous, but quivering still with the desire of life. So much
a glare of the furnace’s light showed me at a glance. When it died
down, I was left alone in the darkness with this revolting figure, and
had but the dread suggestion of its presence for my companion.
“Dr. Fabos of London. Is it not Dr. Fabos? I am an old man, and
my eyes do not help me as once they did. But I think it is Dr. Fabos!”
I turned upon him and declared myself, since any other course
would have made me out afraid of him.
“I am Dr. Fabos—yes, that is so. And you, I think, are the Polish
Jew they call Val Imroth?”
He laughed, a horrible dry throaty laugh, and drew a little nearer
to me.
“I expected you before—three days ago,” he said, just in the tone
of a cat purring. “You made a very slow passage, Doctor—a very
slow passage, indeed. All is well that ends well, however. Here you
are at Santa Maria, and there is your yacht down yonder. Let me
welcome you to the Villa.”
So he stood, fawning before me, his voice almost a whisper in
my ear. What to make of it I knew not at all. Harry Avenhill, the
young thief I captured at Newmarket, had spoken of this dread

figure, but always in connection with Paris, or Vienna, or Rome. Yet
here he was at Santa Maria, his very presence tainting the air as
with a chill breath of menace and of death. My own rashness in
coming to the island never appeared so utterly to be condemned, so
entirely without excuse. This fearful old man might be deaf to every
argument I had to offer. There was no crime in all the story he had
not committed or would not commit. With General Fordibras I could
have dealt—but with him!
“Yes,” I said quite calmly, “that is my yacht. She will start for
Gibraltar to-morrow if I do not return to her. It will depend upon my
friend, General Fordibras.”
I said it with what composure I could command—for this was all
my defence. His reply was a low laugh and a bony finger which
touched my hand as with a die of ice.
“It is a dangerous passage to Gibraltar, Dr. Fabos. Do not dwell
too much upon it. There are ships which never see the shore again.
Yours might be one of them.”
“Unberufen. The German language is your own. If my boat does
not return to Gibraltar, and thence to London, in that case, Herr
Imroth, you may have many ships at Santa Maria, and they will fly
the white ensign. Be good enough to credit me with some small
share of prudence. I could scarcely stand here as I do had I not
measured the danger—and provided against it. You were not then in
my calculations. Believe me, they are not to be destroyed even by
your presence.”
Now, he listened to this with much interest and evident patience;
and I perceived instantly that it had not failed to make an impression
upon him. To be frank, I feared nothing from design, but only from
accident, and although I had him covered by my revolver, I never
once came near to touching the trigger of it. So mutually in accord,
indeed, were our thoughts that, when next he spoke, he might have
been giving tongue to my apprehensions:
“A clever man—who relies upon the accident of papers. My dear
friend, would all the books in our great library in Rome save you
from yonder men if I raised my voice to call them? Come, Dr. Fabos,
you are either a fool or a hero. You hunt me, Valentine Imroth,

whom the police of twenty cities have hunted in vain. You visit us as
a schoolboy might have done, and yet you are as well acquainted
with your responsibilities as I am. What shall I say of you? What do
you say of yourself when you ask the question, ‘Will these men let
me go free? Will they permit my yacht to make Europe again?’ Allow
me to answer that, and in my turn I will tell you why you stand here
safe beside me when at a word of mine, at a nod, one of these
white doors would open and you would be but a little whiff of ashes
before a man could number ten. No, my friend; I do not understand
you. Some day I shall do so—and then God help you!”
It was wonderful to hear how little there was either of vain
boasting or of melodramatic threat in this strange confession. The
revolting hawk-eyed Jew put his cards upon the table just as frankly
as any simpering miss might have done. I perplexed him, therefore
he let me live. My own schemes were so many childish imaginings to
be derided. The yacht, Europe, the sealed papers which would tell
my story when they were opened—he thought that he might mock
them as a man mocks an enemy who has lost his arms by the way.
In this, however, I perceived that I must now undeceive him. The
time had come to play my own cards—the secret cards which not
even his wit had brought into our reckoning.
“Herr Imroth,” I said quietly, “whether you understand me or no
is the smallest concern to me. Why I came to Santa Maria, you will
know in due season. Meanwhile, I have a little information for your
ear and for your ear alone. There is in Paris, Rue Gloire de Marie,
number twenty, a young woman of the name of⁠
——”
I paused, for the light, shining anew, showed me upon the old
man’s face something I would have paid half my fortune to see
there. Fear, and not fear alone: dread, and yet something more than
dread:—human love, inhuman passion, the evil spirit of all malice, all
desire, all hate. How these emotions fired those limpid eyes, drew
down the mouth in passion, set the feeble limbs trembling. And the
cry that escaped his lips—the shriek of terror almost, how it
resounded in the silence of the night!—the cry of a wolf mourning a
cub, of a jackal robbed of a prey. Never have my ears heard such
sounds or my soul revolted before such temper.

“Devil,” he cried. “Devil of hell, what have you to do with her?”
I clutched his arm and drew him down toward me:
“Life for a life. Shall she know the truth of this old man’s story,
the old man who goes to her as a husband clad in benevolence and
well-doing? Shall she know the truth, or shall my friends in Paris
keep silence? Answer, old man, or, by God, they shall tell it to her to-
morrow.”
He did not utter a single word. Passion or fear had mastered him
utterly and robbed him both of speech and action. And herein the
danger lay; for no sooner had I spoken than the light of a lantern
shone full upon my face, while deep down as it were in the very
bowels of the earth, an alarm bell was ringing.
The unknown were coming up out of the pit. And the man who
could have saved me from them had been struck dumb as though by
a judgment of God!

CHAPTER XV.
THE ALARM.
Dr. Fabos is Made a Prisoner.
The Jew seemed unable to utter a sound, but the men who came
up out of the cave made the night resound with their horrid cries.
What happened to me in that instant of fierce turmoil, of loud
alarm, and a coward’s frenzy, I have no clear recollection whatever.
It may have been that one of the men struck me, and that I fell—
more possibly they dragged me down headlong into the pit, and the
press of them alone saved me from serious hurt. The truth of it is
immaterial. There I was presently, with a hundred of them about me
—men of all nations, their limbs dripping with sweat, their eyes
ablaze with desire of my life, their purpose to kill me as
unmistakable as the means whereby they would have contrived it.
It has been my endeavour in this narrative to avoid as far as may
be those confessions of purely personal emotions which are
incidental to all human endeavour. My own hopes and fears and
disappointments are of small concern to the world, nor would I
trespass upon the patience of others with their recital. If I break
through this resolution at this moment, it is because I would avoid
the accusation of a vaunted superiority above my fellows in those
attributes of courage which mankind never fails to admire. The men
dragged me down into the pit, I say and were greedy in their desire
to kill me. The nature of the death they would have inflicted upon
me had already been made clear by the words the Jew had spoken.
The pain of fire in any shape has always been my supreme dread,
and when the dazzling white light shone upon me from the
unspeakable furnaces, and I told myself that these men would shrink
from no measure which would blot out every trace of their crime in
an instant, then, God knows, I suffered as I believe few have done.
Vain to say that such a death must be too horrible to contemplate.

The faces of the men about me belied hope. I read no message of
pity upon any one of them—nothing but the desire of my life, the
criminal blood-lust and the anger of discovery. And, God be my
witness, had they left me my revolver, I would have shot myself
where I stood.
An unnameable fear! A dread surpassing all power of expression!
Such terror as might abase a man to the very dust, send him
weeping like a child, or craving mercy from his bitterest enemy. This
I suffered in that moment when my imagination reeled at its own
thoughts, when it depicted for me the agony that a man must suffer,
cast pitilessly into the bowels of a flaming furnace, and burned to
ashes as coal is burned when the blast is turned upon it. Nothing
under heaven or earth would I not have given the men if thereby
the dread of the fire had been taken from me. I believe that I would
have bartered my very soul for the salvation of the pistol or the
knife.
Let this be told, and then that which follows after is the more
readily understood. The men dragged me down into the pit and
stood crying about me like so many ravening wolves. The Jew,
forcing his way through the press, uttered strange sounds,
incoherent and terrible, and seeming to say that he had already
judged and condemned me. In such a sense the men interpreted
him, and two of them moving the great levers which opened the
furnace doors, they revealed the very heart of the monstrous fire,
white as the glory of the sun, glowing as a lake of flame, a torrid,
molten, unnameable fire toward which strong arms impelled me,
blows thrust me, the naked bodies of the human devils impelled me.
For my part, I turned upon them as a man upon the brink of the
most terrible death conceivable. They had snatched my revolver
from me. I had but my strong arms, my lithe shoulders, to pit
against theirs; and with these I fought as a wild beast at bay. Now
upon my feet, now down amongst them, striking savage blows at
their upturned faces, it is no boast to say that their very numbers
thwarted their purpose and delayed the issue. And, more than this, I
found another ally, one neither in their calculations nor my own. This
befriended me beyond all hope, served me as no human friendship

could have done. For, in a word, it soon appeared that they could
thrust me but a little way toward the furnace doors, and beyond that
point were impotent. The heat overpowered them. Trained as they
were, they could not suffer it. I saw them falling back from me one
by one. I heard them vainly crying for this measure or for that. The
furnace mastered them. It left me at last alone before its open
doors, and, staggering to my feet, I fell headlong in a faint that
death might well have terminated.
A cool air blowing upon my forehead gave me back my senses—I
know not after what interval of time or space. Opening my eyes, I
perceived that men were carrying me in a kind of palanquin through
a deep passage of the rock, and that torches of pitch and flax
guided them as they went. The tunnel was lofty, and its roof clean
cut as though by man and not by Nature. The men themselves were
clothed in long white blouses, and none of them appeared to carry
arms. I addressed the nearest of them, and asked him where I was.
He answered me in French, not unkindly, and with an evident desire
to be the bearer of good tidings.
“We are taking you to the Valley House, monsieur—it is Herr
Imroth’s order.”
“Are these the men who were with him down yonder?”
“Some of them, monsieur. Herr Imroth has spoken, and they
know you. Fear nothing—they will be your friends.”
My sardonic smile could not be hidden from him. I understood
that the Jew had found his tongue in time to save my life, and that
this journey was a witness to the fact. At the same time, an intense
weakness quite mastered my faculties, and left me in that somewhat
dreamy state when every circumstance is accepted without question,
and all that is done seems in perfect accord with the occasion.
Indeed, I must have fallen again into a sleep of weakness almost
immediately, for, when next I opened my eyes, the sun was shining
into the room where I lay, and no other than General Fordibras stood
by my bedside, watching me. Then I understood that this was what

the Frenchman meant by the Valley House, and that here the Jew’s
servants had carried me from the cave of the forges.
Now, I might very naturally have looked to see Joan’s father at
an early moment after my arrival at Santa Maria; and yet I confess
that his presence in this room both surprised and pleased me.
Whatever the man might be, however questionable his story, he
stood in sharp contrast to the Jew and the savages with whom the
Jew worked, up yonder in the caves of the hills. A soldier in manner,
polished and reserved in speech, the General had been an enigma to
me from the beginning. Nevertheless, excepting only my servant
Okyada, I would as soon have found him at my bedside as any man
upon the island of Santa Maria; and when he spoke, though I
believed his tale to be but a silly lie, I would as lief have heard it as
any common cant of welcome.
“I come to ask after a very foolish man,” he said, with a
sternness which seemed real enough. “It appears that the visit was
unnecessary.”
I sat up in bed and filled my lungs with the sweet fresh air of
morning.
“If you know the story,” I said, “we shall go no further by
recalling the particulars of it. I came here to find what you and your
servants were doing at Santa Maria, and the discovery was attended
by unpleasant consequences. I grant you the foolishness—do me the
favour to spare me the pity.”
He turned away from my bedside abruptly and walked to the
windows as though to open them still wider.
“As you will,” he said; “the time may come when neither will
spare the other anything. If you think it is not yet⁠
——”
“It shall be when you please. I am always ready, General
Fordibras. Speak or be silent; you can add very little to that which I
know. But should you choose to make a bargain with me⁠
——?”
He wheeled about, hot with anger.
“What dishonour is this?” he exclaimed. “You come here to spy
upon me; you escape from my house like a common footpad, and go
up to the mines⁠
——”
“The mines, General Fordibras?”

“Nowhere else, Dr. Fabos. Do you think that I am deceived? You
came to this country to steal the secrets of which I am the rightful
guardian. You think to enrich yourself. You would return to London,
to your fellow knaves of Throgmorton Street, and say, ‘There is gold
in the Azores: exploit them, buy the people out, deal with the
Government of Portugal.’ You pry upon my workmen openly, and but
for my steward, Herr Imroth, you would not be alive this morning to
tell the story. Are you the man with whom I, Hubert Fordibras, the
master of these lands, shall make a bargain? In God’s name, what
next am I to hear?”
I leaned back upon the pillow and regarded him fixedly with that
look of pity and contempt the discovery of a lie rarely fails to earn.
“The next thing you are to hear,” I said quietly, “is that the
English Government has discovered the true owners of the Diamond
Ship, and is perfectly acquainted with her whereabouts.”
It is always a little pathetic to witness the abjection of a man of
fine bearing and habitual dignity. I confess to some sympathy with
General Fordibras in that moment. Had I struck him he would have
been a man before me; but the declaration robbed him instantly
even of the distinction of his presence. And for long minutes
together he halted there, trying to speak, but lacking words, the
lamentable figure of a broken man.
“By what right do you intervene?” he asked at last. “Who sent
you to be my accuser? Are you, then, above others, a judge of men?
Good God! Do you not see that your very life depends upon my
clemency? At a word from me⁠
——”
“It will never be spoken,” I said, still keeping my eyes upon him.
“Such crimes as you have committed, Hubert Fordibras, have been in
some part the crimes of compulsion, in some of accident. You are
not wholly a guilty man. The Jew is your master. When the Jew is
upon the scaffold, I may be your advocate. That is as you permit.
You see that I understand you, and am able to read your thoughts.
You are one of those men who shield themselves behind the curtain
of crime and let your dupes hand you their offerings covertly. You do
not see their faces; you rarely hear their voices. That is my
judgment of you—guess-work if you will, my judgment none the

less. Such a man tells everything when the alternative is trial and
sentence. You will not differ from the others when the proper time
comes. I am sure of it as of my own existence. You will save yourself
for your daughter’s sake⁠
——”
He interrupted me with just a spark of reanimation, perplexing
for the moment, but to be remembered afterwards by me to the end
of my life.
“Is my daughter more than my honour, then? Leave her out of
this if you please. You have put a plain question to me, and I will
answer you in the same terms. Your visit here is a delusion; your
story a lie. If I do not punish you, it is for my daughter’s sake. Thank
her, Dr. Fabos. Time will modify your opinion of me and bring you to
reason. Let there be a truce of time, then, between us. I will treat
you as my guest, and you shall call me host. What comes after that
may be for our mutual good. It is too early to speak of that yet.”
I did not reply, as I might well have done, that our “mutual good”
must imply my willingness to remain tongue-tied at a price—to sell
my conscience to him and his for just such a sum as their security
dictated. It was too early, as he said, to come to that close
encounter which must either blast this great conspiracy altogether or
result in my own final ignominy. The “truce of time” he offered
suited me perfectly. I knew now that these men feared to kill me;
my own steadfast belief upon which I had staked my very life, that
their curiosity would postpone their vengeance, had been twice
justified. They spared me, as I had foreseen that they would,
because they wished to ascertain who and what I was, the friends I
had behind me, the extent of my knowledge concerning them. Such
clemency would continue as long as their own uncertainty endured. I
determined, therefore, to take the General at his word, and, giving
no pledge, to profit to the uttermost by every opportunity his fears
permitted to me.
“There shall be a truce by all means,” I said; “beyond that I will
say nothing. Pledge your honour for my safety here, and I will
pledge mine that if I can save you from yourself, I will do so.
Nothing more is possible to me. You will not ask me to go further
than that?”

He replied, vaguely as before, that time would bring us to a
mutual understanding, and that, meanwhile, I was as safe at Santa
Maria as in my own house in Suffolk.
“We shall keep you up here at the Châlet,” he said. “It is warmer
and drier than the other house. My daughter is coming up to
breakfast. You will find her below if you care to get up. I, myself,
must go to St. Michael’s again to-day—I have urgent business there.
But Joan will show you all that is to be seen, and we shall meet
again to-morrow night at dinner if the sea keeps as it is.”
To this I answered that I certainly would get up, and I begged
him to send my servant, Okyada, to me. Anxiety for the faithful
fellow had been in my mind since I awoke an hour ago; and
although my confidence in his cleverness forbade any serious doubt
of his safety, I heard the General’s news of him with every
satisfaction.
“We believe that your man returned to the yacht last night,” he
said. “No doubt, if you go on board to-day, you will find him. The
Irish gentleman, Mr. McShanus, was in Villa do Porto inquiring for
you very early this morning. My servants can take a message down
if you wish it.”
I thanked him, but expressed my intention of returning to the
yacht—at the latest to dinner. He did not appear in any way
surprised, nor did he flinch at my close scrutiny. Apparently, he was
candour itself; and I could not help but reflect that he must have
had the poorest opinion both of my own prescience and of my
credulity. For my own part, I had no doubts at all about the matter,
and I knew that I was a prisoner in the house; and that they would
keep me there, either until I joined them or they could conveniently
and safely make away with me.
Nor was this to speak of a more dangerous, a subtler weapon,
which should freely barter a woman’s honour for my consent, and
offer me Joan Fordibras if I would save a rogue’s neck from the
gallows.

CHAPTER XVI.
AT VALLEY HOUSE.
Joan Fordibras Makes a Confession.
A French valet came to me when General Fordibras had gone,
and offered both to send to the yacht for any luggage I might need,
and also, if I wished it, to have the English doctor, Wilson, up from
Villa do Porto, to see me. This also had been the General’s idea; but
I had no hurt of last night’s affray beyond a few bruises and an
abrasion of the skin where I fell; and I declined the service as
politely as might be. As for my luggage, I had taken a dressing-case
to the Villa San Jorge, and this had now been brought up to the
châlet, as the fellow told me. I said that it would suffice for the brief
stay I intended to make at Santa Maria; and dressing impatiently, I
went down to make a better acquaintance both with the house and
its inmates.
Imagine a pretty Swiss châlet set high in the cleft of a mountain,
with a well-wooded green valley of its own lying at its very door, and
beyond the valley, on the far side, the sheer cliff of a lesser peak,
rising up so forbiddingly that it might have been the great wall of a
fortress or a castle. Such was Valley House, a dot upon the mountain
side—a jalousied, red-roofed cottage, guarded everywhere by walls
of rock, and yet possessing its own little park, which boasted almost
a tropic luxuriance. Never have I seen a greater variety of shrubs, or
such an odd assortment, in any garden either of Europe or Africa.
Box, Scotch fir, a fine show both of orange and lemon in bloom, the
citron, the pomegranate, African palms, Australian eucalyptus, that
abundant fern, the native cabellinho—here you had them all in an
atmosphere which suggested the warm valleys of the Pyrenees,
beneath a sky which the Riviera might have shown to you. So much
I perceived directly I went out upon the verandah of the house. The
men who had built this châlet had built a retreat among the hills,

which the richest might envy. I did not wonder that General
Fordibras could speak of it with pride.
There was no one but an old negro servant about the house
when I passed out to the verandah; and beyond wishing me “Good-
morning, Massa Doctor,” I found him entirely uncommunicative. A
clock in the hall made out the time to be a quarter past eleven. I
perceived that the table had been laid for the mid-day breakfast, and
that two covers were set. The second would be for Joan Fordibras, I
said; and my heart beating a little wildly at the thought, I
determined, if it was possible, to reconnoitre the situation before her
arrival, and to know the best or the worst of it at once. That I was a
prisoner of the valley I never had a doubt. It lay upon me, then, to
face the fact and so to reckon with it that my wit should find the
door which these men had so cunningly closed upon me.
Now, the first observation that I made, standing upon the
verandah of the house, was one concerning the sea and my situation
regarding it. I observed immediately that the harbour of Villa do
Porto lay hidden from my view by the Eastern cliff of the valley. The
Atlantic showed me but two patches of blue-green water, one almost
to the south-west, and a second, of greater extent, to the north.
Except for these glimpses of the ocean, I had no view of the world
without the valley—not so much as that of a roof or spire or even of
the smoke of a human habitation. Whoever had chosen this site for
his châlet of the hills had chosen it where man could not pry upon
him nor even ships at sea become acquainted with his movements.
The fact was so very evident that I accepted it at once, and turned
immediately to an examination of the grounds themselves. In extent,
perhaps, a matter of five acres, my early opinion of their security
was in no way altered by a closer inspection of them. They were, I
saw, girt about everywhere by the sheer walls of monstrous cliffs;
and as though to add to the suggestion of terror, I discovered that
they were defended in their weakness by a rushing torrent of boiling
water, foaming upwards from some deep, natural pool below, and
thence rushing in a very cataract close to the wall of the mountain at
the one spot where a clever mountaineer might have climbed the
arrête of the precipice and so broken the prison. This coincidence

hardly presented its true meaning to me at the first glance. I came
to understand it later, as you shall see.
Walls of rock everywhere; no visible gate; no path or road, no
crevice or gully by which a man might enter this almost fabulous
valley from without! To this conclusion I came at the end of my first
tour of the grounds. No prison had ever been contrived so
cunningly; no human retreat made more inaccessible. As they had
carried me through a tunnel of the mountain last night, so I knew
that the owner of the châlet came and had returned, and that, until
I found the gate of that cavern and my wits unlocked it, I was as
surely hidden from the knowledge of men as though the doors of
the Schlussenburg had closed upon me.
Such a truth could not but appal me. I accepted it with
something very like a shudder and, seeking to forget it, I returned to
the hither garden and its many evidences of scientific horticulture.
Here, truly, the hand of civilisation and of the human amenities had
left its imprint. If this might be, as imagination suggested, a valley of
crime unknown, of cruelty and suffering and lust, none the less had
those who peopled it looked up sometimes to the sun or bent their
heads in homage to the rose. Even at this inclement season, I found
blooms abundantly which England would not have given me until
May. One pretty bower I shall never forget—an arbour perched upon
a grassy bank with a mountain pool and fountain before its doors,
and trailing creeper about it, and the great red flower of begonia
giving it a sheen of crimson, very beautiful and welcome amidst this
maze of green. Here I would have entered to make a note upon
paper of all that the morning had taught me; but I was hardly at the
door of the little house when I discovered that another occupied it
already, and starting back as she looked up, I found myself face to
face with Joan Fordibras.
She sat before a rude table of entwined logs, her face resting
upon weary arms, and her dark chestnut hair streaming all about
her. I saw that she had been weeping, and that tears still glistened
upon the dark lashes of her eloquent eyes. Her dress was a simple
morning gown of muslin, and a bunch of roses had been crushed by
her nervous fingers and the leaves scattered, one by one, upon the

ground. At my coming, the colour rushed back to her cheeks, and
she half rose as though afraid of me. I stood my ground, however,
for her sake and my own. Now must I speak with her, now once and
for ever tell her that which I had come to Santa Maria to say.
“Miss Fordibras,” I said quietly; “you are in trouble and I can help
you.”
She did not answer me. A flood of tears seemed to conquer her.
“Yes,” she said—and how changed she was from my little Joan of
Dieppe!—“Yes, Dr. Fabos, I am in trouble.”
I crossed the arbour and seated myself near her.
“The grief of being misnamed the daughter of a man who is
unworthy of being called your father. Tell me if I am mistaken. You
are not the daughter of Hubert Fordibras? You are no real relative of
his?”
A woman’s curiosity is often as potent an antidote to grief as
artifice may devise. I shall never forget the look upon Joan
Fordibras’s face when I confessed an opinion I had formed but the
half of an hour ago. She was not the General’s daughter. The
manner in which he had spoken of her was not the manner of a
father uttering the name of his child.
“Did my father tell you that?” she asked me, looking up amazed.
“He has told me nothing save that I should enjoy your company
and that of your companion at the breakfast table. Miss Aston, I
suppose, is detained?”
This shrewd and very innocent untruth appeared to give her
confidence. I think that she believed it. The suggestion that we were
not to be alone together did much to make the situation possible.
She sat upright now, and began again to pluck the rose leaves from
her posy.
“Miss Aston is at the Villa San Jorge. I did not wish to come
alone, but my father insisted. That’s why you found me crying. I
hated it. I hate this place, and everyone about it. You know that I
do, Dr. Fabos. They cannot hide anything from you. I said so when
first I saw you in London. You are one of those men to whom
women tell everything. I could not keep a secret from you if my life
depended upon it.”

“Is there any necessity to do so, Miss Fordibras? Are not some
secrets best told to our friends?”
I saw that she was greatly tempted, and it occurred to me that
what I had to contend against was some pledge or promise she had
given to General Fordibras. This man’s evil influence could neither be
concealed nor denied. She had passed her word to him, and would
not break it.
“I will tell you nothing—I dare not,” she exclaimed at length,
wrestling visibly with a wild desire to speak. “It would not help you;
it could not serve you. Leave the place at once, Dr. Fabos. Never
think or speak of us again. Go right now at once. Say good-bye to
me, and try to forget that such a person exists. That’s my secret;
that’s what I came up here to tell you, never mind what you might
think of me.”
A crimson blush came again to her pretty cheeks, and she feared
to look me in the eyes. I had quite made up my mind how to deal
with her, and acted accordingly. Her promise I respected. Neither
fear of the General nor good-will toward me must induce her to
break it.
“That’s a fine word of wisdom,” I said; “but it appears to me that
I want a pair of wings if I am to obey you. Did they not tell you that
I am a prisoner here?”
“A prisoner—oh no, no⁠
——”
“Indeed, so—a prisoner who has yet to find the road which leads
to the sea-shore. Sooner or later I shall discover it, and we will set
out upon it together. At the moment, my eyes show me nothing but
the hills. Perhaps I am grown a little blind, dear child. If that is so,
you must lead me.”
She started up amazed, and ran to the door of the arbour. The
quick pulsations of her heart were to be counted beneath her frail
gown of muslin. I could see that she looked away to the corner of
the gardens where the boiling spring swirled and eddied beneath the
shallow cliff.
“The bridge is there—down there by the water,” she cried
excitedly. “I crossed it an hour ago—an iron bridge, Dr. Fabos, with a

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