It is such an unusual and exciting story that it would be cruel to leave us in suspense about the end." "Very well, then," said Musard, as the other ladies chorused their approval.

"We left the cave, and Moynglass, who considered himself the leader of the expedition, put the ruby in his pocket.

That night we camped at a wild desolate spot, not far from the edge of a cliff about two hundred feet high, at the foot of which the bitter sulphurous waters of the river flowed into a chasm.

In the morning we found Moynglass lying dead in his blanket, with the rusty sheath knife he had brought away from the cave sticking in his breast.

The ruby was gone, and, so, also, was the eldest member of our party--an elderly dark-faced Irishman named Doyne, who, the previous day, had angrily disputed Moynglass's right to carry the ruby.
"We searched for Doyne all that day, but could find no trace of him.