There was every reason to believe that he and Iris, if they found some hiding-place on the island that night, might escape.

He could send Marcel crashing into the undergrowth with a blow, carry the unconscious girl somewhere, anywhere, until the darkness shrouded them, and wait for the dawn with some degree of confidence.

In a red fury of thought he pictured her face when she regained possession of her senses and was told that they had no more to fear.

He saw, with a species of fantastic intuition, that the island authorities would actually acclaim them for the tidings they brought.

And then, he would find those grave brown eyes of hers fixed on his in agonized inquiry.