The captain reports that the great wave swept entirely over the steamer, momentarily submerging her. Two members of the crew, the officer upon the bridge, and one passenger were washed away.
The latter was an American traveling for his health, Waldo E. Smith-Jones, son of John Alden Smith-Jones of Boston.
The steamer came about, cruising back and forth for some time, but as the wave had washed her perilously close to a dangerous shore, it seemed unsafe to remain longer in the vicinity, for fear of a recurrence of the tidal wave which would have meant the utter annihilation of the vessel upon the nearby beach.
No sign of any of the poor unfortunates was seen.
Mrs. Smith-Jones is prostrated.
Immediately John Alden Smith-Jones had fitted out his yacht, Priscilla, despatching her under Captain Burlinghame, a retired naval officer, and an old friend of Mr. Smith-Jones, to the far distant coast in search of the body of his son, which the captain of the steamer was of the opinion might very possibly have been washed upon the beach.
And now Burlinghame was back to report the failure of his mission. The two men were sitting in the John Alden Smith-Jones library. Mrs. Smith-Jones was with them.
“We searched the beach diligently at the point opposite which the tidal wave struck the steamer,” Captain Burlinghame was saying. “For miles up and down the coast we patrolled every inch of the sand.
“We found, at one spot upon the edge of the jungle and above the beach, the body of one of the sailors. It was not and could not have been Waldo’s. The clothing was that of a seaman, the frame was much shorter and stockier than your son’s. There was no sign of any other body along that entire coast.
“Thinking it possible one of the men might have been washed ashore alive we sent parties into the interior. Here we found a wild and savage country, and on two occasions met with fierce, white savages, who hurled rocks at us and fled at the first report of our firearms.
“We continued our search all around the island, which is of considerable extent. Upon the east coast I found this,” and here the captain handed Mr. Smith-Jones the bag of jewels which Nadara had forgotten as she fled from Thandar.
Briefly he narrated what he knew of the history of the poor woman to whom it had belonged.
“I recall the incident well,” said Mrs. Smith-Jones, “I had the pleasure of entertaining the count and countess when they stopped here upon their honeymoon. They were lovely people, and to think that they met so tragic an end!”
The three lapsed into silence. Burlinghame did not know whether he was glad or sorry that he had not found the bones of Waldo Emerson—that would have meant the end of hope for his parents. Perhaps much the same thoughts were running through the minds of the others.
Somewhere in the nether regions of the great house an electric bell sounded. Still the three sat on in silence. They heard the houseman open the front door. They heard low voices, and presently there came a deferential tap upon the door of the library.
Mr. Smith-Jones looked up and nodded. It was the houseman. He held a letter in his hand.
“What is it Krutz?” asked the master in a tired voice. It seemed that nothing ever again would interest him.
“A special delivery letter, sir,” replied the servant. “The boy says you must sign for it yourself, sir.”
“Ah, yes,” replied Mr. Smith-Jones, as he reached for the letter and the receipt blank.
He glanced at the post mark—San Francisco.
Idly he cut the envelope.
“Pardon me?” He glanced first at his wife and then at Captain Burlinghame.
The two nodded.
Mr. John Alden Smith-Jones opened the letter. There was a single written sheet and an enclosure in another envelope. He had read but a couple of lines when he came suddenly upright in his chair.
Captain Burlinghame and Mrs. Smith-Jones looked at him in polite and surprised questioning.
“My God!” exclaimed Mr. Smith-Jones. “He is alive—Waldo is alive!”
Mrs. Smith-Jones and Captain Burlinghame sprang from their chairs and ran toward the speaker.
With trembling hands that made it difficult to read the words that his trembling voice could scarce utter John Alden Smith-Jones read aloud:
On board the Sally Corwith, San Francisco, California.
Mr. John Alden Smith-Jones, Boston, Mass.
Dear Sir: Just reached port and hasten to forward letter your son gave me for his mother. He wouldn’t come with us. We found him on ⸻ Island, Lat. 10° —″ South, Long. 150° —″ West. He seemed in good health and able to look out for himself. Didn’t want anything, he said, except a razor, so we gave him that and one of the men gave him a plug of chewing tobacco. Urged him to come, but he wouldn’t. The enclosed letter will doubtless tell you all about him.
“Ten south, a hundred and fifty west,” mused Captain Burlinghame. “That’s the same island we searched. Where could he have been!”
Mrs. Smith-Jones had opened the letter addressed to her, and was reading it breathlessly.
My dear Mother: I feel rather selfish in remaining and possibly causing you further anxiety, but I have certain duties to perform to several of the inhabitants which I feel obligated to fulfill before I depart.
My treatment here has been all that anyone might desire—even more, I might say.
The climate is delightful. My cough has left me, and I am entirely a well man—more robust than I ever recall having been in the past.
At present I am sojourning in the mountains, having but run down to the sea shore today, where, happily, I chanced to find the Sally Corwith in the harbor, and am taking advantage of Captain Dobbs’ kindness to forward this letter to you.
Do not worry, dearest mother; my obligations will soon be fulfilled and then I shall hasten to take the first steamer for Boston.
I have met a number of
