As the yacht drew closer a strange silence seemed to fall upon the vessel.  The Professor’s gurgles of joy died away slowly, and none of the others seemed inclined to break the stillness.  The crew and the half dozen islanders that Leith had brought to carry provisions and specimens were also silent.  They were grouped for’ard, but not a murmur came from them as The Waif crept slowly ahead, feeling her way cautiously into the little bay on the north side of the island which Leith had suggested to Newmarch as a good anchorage.

The peculiar stories that had gone abroad concerning the Isle of Tears were responsible for most of the wide-eyed looks of wonder which the imaginative Polynesians directed upon the shore; the strange predicament in which they were placed tied the tongues of the two girls; the Professor was thinking of the archaeological treasures, while thoughts that one could only guess at prevented Leith and Holman from speaking.

The island had a strange, wild beauty that seemed to throttle speech.  The underlying coral reefs were of colours that ran from pure white to gorgeous crimson, and the effect upon the water above them was wonderful to behold. The Waif seemed to make her way over a floor of beautiful parquetry which Mother Nature had been constructing for centuries.  Chameleon-tinted seaweeds stretched upward, waving backward and forward like the hair of sea nymphs hidden in the crevices of the multi-coloured rocks.

The vegetation on the shore was weird and wondrous.  The trees immediately near the edge of the bay were covered with riotous lianas that looped themselves like pythons from limb to limb, and from whose green masses blazing red flowers appeared at intervals like watchful eyes.  Scarlet hibiscus and perfumed frangipanni were everywhere, while climbing jasmine tried to cover up the black basalt rocks in the foreground as if to hide everything that was ugly from the eyes of the visitor.  The sweet, intoxicating odours came out to us in greeting, yet the place seemed to inspire us with a feeling of awe and mystery that became more oppressive as the yacht moved lazily across the bay.

I glanced at Edith Herndon at the moment the anchor plunged down into the bed of coral, and the look of perplexed wonder upon her face startled me.

“It looks a nice place, yet it feels an awful spot,” she murmured.  “All those snaky creepers with their coloured flowers seem to be hiding something.”

I understood her feelings regarding the place.  That look of weird expectancy, common to places that are cloaked with a tremendous silence, had gripped the two girls, and the yacht seemed homelike when they compared it to the shore.

“Oh, Edith,” cried the younger sister, “I wish father wouldn’t go!”

“So do I, dear,” murmured the elder girl, “but it is useless to attempt to persuade him to give up the quest.”

“But I hate the place!” cried Miss Barbara.  “Don’t you?”