worst,—” He put out his hand to grip a six foot bow. It was a good yew bow. The arrows at his side were tipped with triangles of steel sharp as razor blades. Down here in Haiti he had used these for hunting wild guinea hens and wild pigs.

“But if worst comes to worst,” he told himself, settling back against the trunk of the tree, “it’s an easy shot. I wouldn’t miss. And the person, whoever it may be, would not go on.”

You who have read our other book called “Johnny Longbow” will know that his thoughts were true when they assured him that he would not miss; for Johnny Thompson, by long and careful application to the task, had mastered the difficult art of archery. And this boy, resting here at the edge of a tropical forest in that mysterious island of Haiti, was none other than your old friend Johnny Thompson. How he came here; what strange stroke of fate it was that brought him into company with the slim and supple young inventor, Curlie Carson, does not, for the moment, matter.

For some time after that Johnny’s mind was busied with many thoughts. The thing that dangled there from window to window, was, he thought, a rope. Later he decided it must be a ladder, a rope ladder of henequin. The natives of Haiti are expert spinners and rope makers. From the tough fibers of the henequin leaf they twist the finest cord and stoutest rope.

“But why is he there? And how did he get there?” He was thinking of the mysterious being whose invisible hand had let down the rope ladder. “We’ve been about the place for five days and have seen no one. It’s been quiet here—too quiet. Ghostlike. Fellow can hardly sleep nights in such a monstrous bat roost with its hundred years of mystery and tragedy hanging over his head, and it so silent.

“And here,” he told himself, flexing his arms that they might be fit for any emergency, “here we come upon someone who apparently has evil intentions against Curlie. Of course, it may be only curiosity. And who wouldn’t be curious? Got me guessing. All that stuff—batteries, boxes, canvas bound packages. Three donkey loads. You’d think he was setting up a high-power wireless station. But he hasn’t, as yet. Hasn’t even erected an aerial.”

Curlie was a queer chap, there was no getting round that. Tall, slim, with mysterious gray-green eyes and with no past he had thus far cared to mention, he had come into Johnny’s life on the way down to Haiti from the States. From that time until now, save for the hours Curlie spent in the secret room he had rigged up in the old fort, the two boys had been inseparable.

“He may not have a past worth mentioning,” Johnny had often told himself. “But he has a splendid present and fine ideals for the future. And that is all that counts.”

For some time, as twilight turned to darkness, nothing further happened. Keeping his eye on the dangling ladder, Johnny allowed his mind to wander over the events that had led up to the present dramatic moment.

The whole affair had begun way back in freshman high school days. Johnny’s science professor had become, in a way, his pal. His natural interest in all matters pertaining to science had made him a leader in that field.

Then too, like Johnny, the Professor was fond of travel. Together, at odd moments, they had traversed all of the New World and much of the Old. All of this, of course, on maps and charts. But always, in the end, they came back to one spot, the Island of Haiti.

“Johnny,” the Professor had said over and over, “that is the most interesting island in the world, has the most absorbing history, and most tempting mountain jungles. Johnny,” he had always pounded the table at this juncture, “I’ll soon be sixty. Thirty-five years of teaching! That’s enough for any man. When I am sixty we’ll really go to Haiti!”

So here they were. In the meantime Johnny had done a little wandering on his own account, but as soon as he heard that his beloved Professor had gone to Haiti, he had followed.

He had found the Professor head over heels in work. For more than a hundred years this strange republic, not Spanish, not French, nor English, but pure native, red, black and brown, had struggled along without aid from her sister republic, Johnny’s own beloved land. But now the United States had taken a hand and Professor Star had been given a share in the work. A splendid, kind-hearted humanitarian, he had accepted the challenge and, with no pay save his living expenses, had assumed responsibility for the comfort, happiness and well-being of more than ten thousand natives.

“It’s a big task,” he told Johnny. “An almost impossible task without money. See that mason-work?” he had said one day as they walked through a tangled mass of vines and bushes.

“What is it?” Johnny had asked.

“The old French aqueduct, Johnny!” He had gripped the boy’s arm hard. “This narrow valley was once one of the richest in the world. Irrigated it was, by water from the mountain streams. And, Johnny, if we had money for cement, we’d rebuild that aqueduct and these half-starved and half-naked people would be happy and prosperous.

“And we, Johnny, you and I,” his eyes had shone with high hope. “We would become rich, for more than half of the land is uninhabited waste that can be bought for an incredibly small sum. And with water for irrigation it can be reclaimed and sold—for who knows how much? Get an American planter interested in it. Then see! We’d be rich, my boy! Think of an old professor and a boy getting rich!” He had laughed a cackling sort of laugh.

But Johnny knew that he had meant what he said, every word of it. And he was for it from the start. But where was the money for repairing the aqueduct? That was the rub.

“All we need,” Johnny had smiled back, “is to find the ‘Rope of Gold’.”

“Johnny,” the old Professor had spoken again, his voice grown husky, “sometimes when one sees the need, he is tempted to believe in fables, even in pots of gold at the foot of the rainbow. Do you see that massive pile of stone way up yonder, built by the only real emperor the island ever knew?”

Johnny had looked away at the distant Citadel, the massive fortress which was so near now, down whose side the rope ladder dangled.

“Johnny,” the Professor had grown quite excited, “this emperor of theirs, Christophe, was apprenticed as a boy to a stone mason. They say that as an old man, and a very rich emperor, who owned a third of the plantations, he went many times to work alone on those walls at night. And they say that he built boxes and boxes of gold into the twenty foot walls, together with mortar and stone. Men often have dug for it, but they never found the place. Possibly,” he had ended rather wearily, “there was no gold. But there should be. We need it. Christophe, when at his best, had wonderful dreams regarding the future of his people. Those people need the gold as never before.”

“I wonder,” Johnny now thought to himself as he looked away at the massive wall where the rope ladder still dangled and where a pale light gleamed from the lower window, “I wonder how much of that ancient tale was true?”

As he looked up and up until his eye reached the very crest of the crumbling fortress, he fancied he saw a figure moving there. It suggested the ghost of the emperor still laying stones in the wall.

“But that,” he told himself stoutly, “is pure fancy. So, too, are the tales the natives tell of the ghost emperor who returns from time to time to work once more at night repairing the walls to hide his treasure. I