Within the cabin, so zealously watched by the detective prior to the journey of Thorpe and Sam across the island, were the occupants--Jack Sh.o.r.e and his little captive, Dorothy Thorpe. The child was carefully and secretly guarded, and at the same time made as comfortable as the limited quarters of her captor would permit.

Jack Sh.o.r.e was kind to the child, and though fully conscious of the severe penalty of his desperate undertaking should he be discovered, he nevertheless allowed her a certain freedom of the abode in which he had placed her, of course always providing for securely bolted outer doors.

During the preceding night she had been secretly and quietly removed from her first hiding place to the cabin. Her silence was obtained by the promise of being taken home should she be a good little girl, and not make a disturbance. But as a precaution she had been wrapped up in a manner so as completely to blindfold her, and in her childish confidence was conveyed without any trouble, in the dead hour of night, to the cabin.

The interior of the cabin was divided into two rooms. The small one was used as a sleeping apartment, having two roughly-constructed bunks, one above the other. On one wall was a small four-paned window that gave light to the room. A small mirror, and a man's clothing hung on the wall, and a short, well-worn strip of carpet covered the floor.

The large room served the purpose of a kitchen, dining room, pantry, laundry and general utility combined. There was a small cook stove in the corner near the dividing part.i.tion. One dishcloth and a couple of towels hung on a line across the corner of the room over the stove. A shallow box about three feet square, and nailed to the wall beside the window, served as a cupboard for provisions. A table, an old chair, a three-legged stool and a box const.i.tuted the remaining furniture.

At night a lighted lamp rested on a bracket above the table, and on this particular night Jack's coat hung beside the lamp.

The main entrance door of the cabin was at the kitchen end, and opened inward. There was also a door at the bedroom end of the cabin, securely locked and bolted. The door in the part.i.tion between the two rooms was in line with the other doors, and had a small pane of gla.s.s, six by six inches, in the upper panel.

On this eventful night Dorothy was seated on the chair, her head resting on her arms on the end of the table, indifferently watching Jack. He, with a cigar in his mouth and in his gray shirtsleeves, was standing in front of the table wiping a dishpan, the last of the evening cleanup. Putting the pan away under the shelf, he hung the dishcloth beside its mate on the line, and carefully stretched it out to dry. Then, as he sat down on the stool at the end of the table opposite Dorothy, a smile of satisfaction stole over his dark, swarthy face when he surveyed the result of his work--a clean and tidy appearing room.

"Eesa be so nice-a da clean. So bute-a da corner. Eesa like-a da fine-a house. Tar-rah-rah! Tink-a eesa get-a da fote-da-graph of eet a made. Put eem in-a Sunny da paper. Eh-a da Daize! What a use-a da tink? Eh!"

Dorothy raised her head and looked at him in offended, childish dignity.

"My name is not A da Daize; it is Dorothy!"

"Eesa like-a da Daize a bet! What youse-a tink? Eesa nicey da room, eh Daize?"

Then the child indifferently looked at the corner with its stove and adjuncts. She had been detained in his company now--for four days, and, childlike, was intuitively quick in interpreting the broken, stumbling Dago utterances of Jack.

"It is not so nice as our kitchen," she naively replied. "But maybe the photo will make people think you are a good cook!"

"A da cook-a!--naw, eesa be d.a.m.n! Turnoppsis! Carrotsis! Cababbages!

Black-a da boots"--

"Well, then," interrupted the child, pouting, "a rich man if you like; I don't care."

"Eesa mores-a da bet," and he smiled approvingly. "And a Sunny-a da paper print under da fote-da-graph some-a ting like-a deeze--A da corner ova-a da dining room--maybees-a da den wud look-a da bet," he muttered reflectively. "In deeze-a home ova-a a Signor George-a da Golda--house-a dat, eh, a Daize?"

"Is that your name?" she inquired.

"Eesa good-a da name? A Daize."

"May I stay in here when the photo man comes?"

"Sure-a Daize!"

"Oh, good!" and the child clapped her little hands and laughed gleefully.

Jack looked at her quizzically, and then, seating himself on the stool, took the child between his knees.

"Tell-a me, da Daize, what-a da for youse-a like-a da picture take-a here, eh?"

"Cause!" she answered shyly.

"Cause-a da what? Speak-a Daize."

"I don't like to."

"A Daize! Youse a know I bees-a da friend, speak-a."

"Well, then my papa would know where to find me."

"I deez-a thought so. Daize, youse-a tink I beez a da bad-a man. Eh, why?"

"'Cause you promised to take me home and you have not."

"Well-a Daize, your-a good-a da girl, and--eef-a da papa donn-a da come bees-a da morn, we'll-a go for-a da fine him, eh! Now youse-a da like-a me now? Eh, a Daize?"

"Oh, I like you ever so much for that, and we'll go home tomorrow?

"Sure-a Daize! Now tell-a me some-a ting about a da Virginia."

"If I do you'll sure take me home tomorrow?"

"Sure-a Daize! Eesa beez a da good a da woman, eh? Much a da like a you. Eh, a da Daize?"

"Oh, yes; she would do anything for me, and I love my aunt, too."

"Eesa look a da nicey. Mose a beez a da rich, eh-a Daize?"

"My aunt does oil paintings, too."

"Eesa got a much a da mon, eh a Daize?"

"Oh, yes; a pocket full," replied the unsuspecting child.

"Everybody says that she is rich, and I guess that it must be true,"

muttered Jack, and he could not suppress a smile of satisfaction the child's information gave him.

"Eesa time to go a da bed, a Daize. Kiss a me good a da night."

"If I do, you won't forget your promise?"

"What a da promise?"

"To take me home tomorrow."

"Sure a Daize. I donna forget."

Then the child kissed him, and at the contact of her soft, warm lips with his--like a stream of sunshine, the child innocence of purest lips, pierced his heart with a shaft of kindly sympathy.

"Good a da night, a Daize," he said in a voice soft and gentle. Then he released the child and arose to his feet. It drew from her a look of steady admiration, and then she replied:

"Good night!" On the threshold of the sleeping apartment she turned and said: