CHAPTER I.

       Though Derek Clyde had been travelling in the Far East for several months, and was steeped in the colour and folklore of India, it was with sensations as pleasurable as any he had experienced before, with sensations that had not lost any of their charm and piquancy, that he found himself one morning approaching the capital of Burma, on board the steamer Brahmaputra. The faithful Jock Nicol was, of course, by his side, standing in an attitude that was deferential to a nicety, and yet not lacking in a sturdy pride that was characteristic of the old servant.

       "Will it be Rangoon, sir?" he inquired.

       "Yes, there it is yonder," said Clyde. "The city of pagodas — that is about all there is to see. It is where the elephants are piling teak, and one hears 'the tinkly temple bells on the road to Mandalay,' as Rudyard Kipling has expressed it."

       "And what does he say about pagodas, sir? He has no good opinion of them, I'll be bound. I'm hoping you won't be falling under the spell of their seductive ways, and forgetting that at your age you should not be frivolous-minded, and —"

       "What on earth are you talking about?" interrupted Derek Clyde. "What do you suppose pagodas are?"

       "They're some kind of girl, aren't they?" asked the servant.

       "Nonsense, Jock! What an absurd idea! Pagodas are nothing more or less than Burmese temples!"

       "Indeed, sir! I'll say no more of them, then. But, as for the Burmese girls, I was told by a waiter at our hotel that they were more attractive than the women of India."

       "I have no personal knowledge of the subject, Jock," said his master. "You will soon have an opportunity of judging for yourself. And I shall keep a wary eye on you now."

       And Jock stalked off in high dudgeon, followed by a smile of amusement from Clyde, to be seen no more until the big vessel had scraped alongside of the jetty and been made fast.

       There were the usual landing scenes, the usual curious crowd, the usual shouting, gesticulating natives with, vehicles to hire; but nothing confused Derek Clyde and his servant, who, after some little delay, found, themselves in an open carriage, with their luggage, driving through the streets of a big city that was quite new to them. A medley of odd impressions streamed upon them, in bewildering succession; they saw avenues of tall palm trees, and gardens filled with amazing vegetation; Chinese pawn-shops in apparently endless rows, and far off the gilded dome of a pagoda, dominating Rangoon as St Paul's dominates London; and a market-place where were many Burmese girls who were worthy of the praise that Jock had heard bestowed upon them; for they were neat-figured and slim, with red lips and glossing black hair in which flowers were coquettishly stuck. Less attractive, however, was their habit or smoking huge cheroots that looked like thick rolls of brown paper.

       Thus a part of the Burmese city rolled by, and then came the Royal Prince Hotel, where the travellers found cool, shaded apartments, and a hearty welcome and obsequious servants — and also a middle-aged sandy-complexioned man, unmistakably British, who had close cropped side-whiskers, and wore dark clothes and a straw hat.

       "Mr. Derek Clyde, I believe, he murmured, bowing stiffly.

       And with that he produced from a pocket and handed to the detective a card on which was engraved:

       "Mr. Robert Jebb. Representing Messrs. Guthrie and Pryde, solicitors, 300 Gordon Street, Glasgow."

       Derek Clyde looked at the slip of pasteboard, and looked at the man with the sandy complexion. He did not show any surprise, though it was rather staggering to him to be thus accosted by a Scotsman from Glasgow so soon after he had landed in Rangoon.

       "My name is Clyde," he said. "What can I do for you?"

       "I will explain as briefly as I can," replied Mr. Robert Jebb, in a dry, legal voice. "I reached this city yesterday, sir, having been sent out to Burma by my firm to try to get some information concerning a business matter that has come into their hands. They were at first desirous of obtaining your services, which they found to be impossible, since you were making a tour of the world. But after my departure, it appears, they learned that you were in India, and that you were due in Rangoon on or about a certain date; and on the strength of that knowledge they cabled to me last night, instructing me to await your arrival, and to place in your hands the matter that has been entrusted to me. I am not surprised that they should have done this, as the affair promises to be a difficult and complicated one. To continue, I was on the point, of visiting the shipping-offices to inquire about vessels from India when you walked into the hotel. And, of course I recognised you at once, as I have often seen you in Glasgow. Have I made myself clear?"

       "You have, as far as you have gone. And now, to come to the point. What do your people want me to do?"

       "It is their wish, sir, that you should find the heir to the estate of Mr. Archibald Darnley, the wealthy merchant of Hillhead, Glasgow, who died suddenly some weeks ago, and left no will. He had a niece and a nephew, but at present their claims to share the estate cannot be established."

       "I was slightly acquainted with the merchant," said Clyde, in a thoughtful tone. "He had a son, had he not?"

       "He had," Mr. Jebb answered, "but the young man is believed to have died in Burma. It is regarded as likely, however, that he may have married, and had a —"

       "You need not go into particulars, Mr. Jebb. You had better take this matter in hand yourself, as I am not inclined to do so."

       "But my employers are extremely anxious that you should take it up."

       "I should he glad to do so, under other circumstances; but I am on a long holiday, and do not care to be bothered with business."

       "I trust that you will not refuse, sir. Think it over."

       "Very well," said Derek Clyde, after a moment of hesitation. "I will join you in an hour, after I have had a wash and something to eat. I will hear the whole story, and will then give you an answer."

       With that he nodded, and turned away; and Jock, as he followed his master, wondered if the visit to Rangoon was going to lead to another adventure.

(To be Continued.)

CHAPTER II.

       Luncheon was over, and for half an hour Clyde and the lawyers' clerk had been sitting in basket-chairs on an awning-covered verandah at the back of the Royal Prince Hotel, overlooking a large garden that was like a miniature jungle, so thickly covered with trees and vegetation. Robert Jebb had clearly explained the situation, and it had proved more interesting to the detective than he had expected it to be.

       Mr. Archibald Darnley had been a rich man, and a partner in the firm of Darnley and Chambers, of Calcutta and Glasgow. He having died intestate, leaving a fortune of something like £200,000, his executors, Messrs Guthrie and Pryde, had set about finding an heir to this money. There was a nephew, Malcolm Darnley; and there was also a niece, Flora Ross by name, the orphan daughter of the dead merchant's sister, who had many years ago quarrelled with her brother, and never been reconciled to him. But before the claims to be settled, and on that point hung the affair that the lawyers wanted Clyde to look into.

       Twelve years ago, at the age of twenty, Roderick Darnley had been sent out to Calcutta, there to take a position in his father's business house. It had been hoped that he would reform — he had led a dissipated life at home — but within a year he had gone entirely to the bad, and had disappeared after having embezzled some thousands of pounds. For ten years nothing had been heard of him, and then, two years ago, news had reached Glasgow, from Rangoon, to the effect that the young man had died under mysterious circumstances, and that he had left a native wife. The merchant had taken no steps to verify these rumours, and now, after his death, it devolved upon the lawyers to inquire into the matter.

       "There is nothing more to tell you, I think," concluded Mr. Jebb. "I have explained everything, and I hope that you will meet the wishes of my people. It is important that they should obtain proof of Roderick Darnley's death — if he is really dead — and that they should ascertain whether, in the event of his having married a native girl, his wife is living, and whether or not she had any children."

       "I quite understand," said Derek Clyde. "It is all very clear, as far as it goes. But you have not told me from whom came the rumours of young Darnley's death two years ago."

       "From a Mr. John Wilson, who is the Rangoon agent for the firm of Darnley and Chambers."

       "Is he still in Rangoon?"

       "Yes, I believe he is. I had intended calling upon him this morning, but I changed my mind after receiving the telegram that instructed me to put the matter in your hands."

       "I assure you that if the young man is dead, and that he died unmarried," Clyde went on, speaking half to himself, "the estate of the late Mr. Archibald Darnley: will go in equal parts to his niece and nephew?"

       "That is quite correct, sir," replied Robert Jebb, "and I imagine that they will get the money in the end. For my part, I could wish that it would all go to the niece. The nephew, Malcolm Darnley, is a vicious, unprincipled, worthless rascal, and he bears a bad reputation in Glasgow. He has been to my firm half-a-dozen times trying to borrow money on the strength of his expectations."

       "I know something about the fellow," declared Derek Clyde, shaking his head gravely, "I am well aware of his evil reputation. And I also know all about the niece, Flora Ross, who is a beautiful girl, and as plucky as she is beautiful. I was fortunately able to befriend her a year ago. On the death of her father she was left a penniless orphan, and as she was too proud to appeal to Mr. Darnley — because he had refused to be reconciled to her mother — she tried to make a living by selling matches in the streets of Edinburgh. She allowed me to help her, and she is now working in a large shop in London. But it is a dreary, sordid life, and I am afraid the poor girl is not happy. though she has attempted to disguise that fact in the letters she has written to me."

       The detective paused for a moment, and a soft, tender expression crept into his eyes.

       "I have decided to do what your people wish," he added. "It will be a change for me, and I have the time to spare. I will take this affair in hand for the sake of the merchant's niece, in the hope of praying that Roderick Darnley, if he is dead, has left no wife or child; in the hope of securing for Flora Ross a fortune of £100,000, that she may give up her life of toil. She is a brave, sweet girl, and it is a shame that she should have been neglected by her uncle. It will be a great pleasure to me to ——"

       Clyde stopped abruptly, having just lifted his eyes, and observed a sinister face, with a black moustache, that was peering from a thicket within a couple of yards of the verandah. At the same instant it was seen by the lawyer's clerk, and as he was staring at it breathlessly, it disappeared.

       "By heavens, I know that face!" he gasped. "I know the man!"

       "Who was it?" exclaimed Derek Clyde.

       "Malcolm Darnley, the nephew we have been speaking of!"

       "Are you sure?"

       "Yes, I can swear to his identity! There can be no mistake, sir!"

       For several seconds they looked mutely at each other, and then, with one impulse, they sprang to their feet, dashed down from the verandah, and plunged into the trees and shrubbery. They were too late, however. A sound of footsteps guided them, but, by the time they had drawn near to the end of the garden, the man for whom they were seeking had climbed to the top of the wall, and they had only a fleeting glimpse of him as he vanished, on the other side.

       "Let him go," said the detective, in a tone of chagrin. "We wouldn't know what to do with him if we had him."

       "He must hare overheard all our conversation," replied Robert Jebb.

       "I have no doubt that he did. If the fellow was Malcolm Darnley — and I'll accept your word for that — why has he followed you out to Burma?"

       "Because he is anxious about the estate. His object was to learn what success I might meet with in my task. And now he knows that you are going to take the matter up."

       "He may have a more sinister object than that," said Derek Clyde, shrugging, his shoulders. "I must be on my guard against him. But don't let this worry you, Mr. Jebb," he continued. "Leave the affair to me, and remain in Rangoon until my task is finished. I will set to work at once, and I trust that before long I shall have some news for you to communicate to your employers. That is all for the present. I may see you to-morrow, and I may not. I can't tell."

(To be Continued.)

CHAPTER II. — (Continued.)

       Derek Clyde was absent from the hotel all the afternoon, and when he returned in the evening, at sunset, he related to his servant all that he had heard from Robert Jebb, and then spoke of his search for John Wilson, the Rangoon agent of the firm of Darnley and Chambers.

       "He was not at his office, and not at his home," the detective went on, "but eventually I found him at the house of a friend on the outskirts of the city. I had an interview with him, and he was able to give me some valuable information. He assured me that Roderick Darnley was really dead, that he had died two years ago in the district of Bhamo, and that I could get all particulars, and a death certificate, from the Commissioner of that district."

       "And what about the rumour of the young man's marriage, sir?" asked Jock.

       "Mr. Wilson does not know if there was any truth in the story or not," Clyde replied, "so I must find that out for myself."

       "Will you go to the place, sir?"

       "Yes, you aid I will leave to-morrow for the village of Pegu, where the commissioner lives. It is a journey of sixty miles up-country, partly by rail, and partly by road."

       and with that Clyde put a match to his pipe, and masked his thoughtful features behind a cloud of smoke.

---

 
CHAPTER III.

       Between eight and nine o'clock on the following morning Derek Clyde and his servant were seated in a comfortable compartment of a railway train, watching the straggling suburbs of Rangoon as they glided by Where was Malcolm Darnley? Had he shadowed the detective to the house of the agent's friend on the previous afternoon and perchance overhead the interview that had taken place there? And if so, what would he have been likely to do? This question worried Clyde, who felt that he had no reason to be apprehensive of the nephew, but he solaced himself with his pipe, and did not communicate his fears to Jock.

       "I don't suppose there is any ground for alarm," he reflected, after thinking the matter over. "It is not likely that the fellow is aware of what I learned from John Wilson."

       The train was bound for the distant city of Mandalay, and as it travelled very slowly, Jock and his master had plenty of opportunities of enjoying the scenery, which was much like that of India, and yet in many respects different. Numerous Burmese peasants were seen, some in carts, and some on foot. Here was a little military post, with glimpses of khaki-clad soldiers; and here a gilded temple, guarded by dragons with fiery tongues, and hung With bells that tinkled sweetly, in the wind. Here a village, and here a sketch of dense jungle haunted by tigers — and perhaps dacoits; and here paddy-fields, over which buffaloes were dragging rude ploughs. And now and again elephants were passed, hauling heavy burdens.

       Thus the morning wore on, while the train crawled through the strange, interesting land, and it was past twelve o'clock when Clyde and his servant stepped on to the platform of a lonely wayside station that was more than fifty miles from Rangoon, and within eight miles of their destination. The detective had wired to the station-master to procure a conveyance, and there was waiting for him, over in the road, a bullock-cart in charge of an elderly native.

       He and Jock at once went over to this, without looking to see if any other passengers had left the train; and as they were about to climb into it footsteps quickly approached from behind, and at the sound of his name Derek Clyde swung round, and saw with surprise and consternation the face that had peered at him from the garden of the Royal Prince Hotel. In front of him, attired in a linen suit and a sola-torpee, stood a tall, slim young man, who, it could not be doubted was the nephew of the late Archibald Darnley.

       "I think you are Mr. Derek Clyde," he repeated.

       "I am," the detective answered curtly, "and you, I am sure, are Mr. Malcolm Darnley."

       "Yes, that's right."

       "And why have you followed me from Rangoon?"

       "You are hasty in assuming that I have followed you, sir. I admit that I did, however, and I will tell you why if you will grant me a few words in private."

       Clyde was silent for a moment, half-inclined to deny the impudent request. But he yielded to curiosity, and there was the ghost of a smile on his lips — he believed he knew what was coming — as he drew the young man a few yards to one side.

       "Now then, what is it?" he said. "I haven't much time to spare."

       "You can guess what I want," replied Malcolm Darnley, in a sulky tone. "I know what you game is, and you know what your success or failure will mean to me. My cousin Roderick is dead, but I have an idea that he was married to a native girl, and I believe you are of the same opinion."

       "I can't tell anything about it as yet," Clyde said amiably.

       "But you will soon know, I have no doubt. If you were to discover that my cousin has a legal wife living, would you feel it to be your duty to communicate that fact to the Glasgow solicitors?"

       "I certainly should, Mr. Darnley."

       "But that would be foolish, sir. Think of the scandal that would be caused, if it were made public that my cousin had married a Burmese girl! If there is a dark-skinned wife, she should not be brought to Scotland. She would not need money. She would not know what to do with it. It would be a cruel kindness to make her a rich woman, and turn her head with ideas that would —"

       "Is that all you have to say to me?" interrupted Derek Clyde; and as he spoke an ominous gleam flashed to his eyes.

       "No I have not finished," blandly continued the young man, heedless of the danger sign. "I want to make a proposition that will be to your advantage and to mine."

       "What is it? Be quick!"

       "I'll come to the point, at once. If you were to ascertain that my cousin was married, and that his wife is alive, what price would you like to hush the matter up and mislead the lawyers, so that I can establish a claim to half of my uncle's estate?"

       "How large a sum would you be willing to pay?"

       "I might go as high as £10,000. It is a lot of money, but I will give you that if you will agree to my proposition. What is your answer?"

       "This is my answer, and it is a final one!" Clyde cried in a fury, as he shot out with his fist, and dealt Malcolm Darnley a blow that stretched him flat on his back. "Let that teach you n lesson, you infernal scoundrel! How dare you try to bribe me? If you follow me any farther," he added, "I will give you something worse!"

       And with a glance at the young man, who lay raving and cursing on the ground, he hastened to the cart, swung himself into it. The bullocks set off at once, started by the native driver's whip, and as the vehicle rumbled into the forest Derek Clyde briefly related to his servant what had happened.

       "I must be on my guard," he concluded. "I imagine I have not seen the last of that fellow."

       "I'm thinking, sir, that he will have seen quite enough of you," said Jock.

(To be Continued.)

CHAPTER IV.

       In the middle of the afternoon, after a long journey through the wild, unbroken jungle, the bullock-cart emerged in the open, close to a village that was comprised of a score or so of huts. On the near edge of it was a cosy-looking bungalow, and this was the residence of Mr. Stanley Arnold, the District Commissioner, who proved to be a bronzed, middle-aged man of genial disposition. He gave Clyde a hearty welcome, and listened attentively to a brief explanation of his visit.

       "You have come to the right place," he said. "I know all about Roderick Darnley. When I was sent here, three years, ago, he was living in the neighbourhood, and had been married for seven or eight years to a very attractive young woman, a half-caste named Shansee."

       "A half-caste — eh?" murmured Derek Clyde. "It might have been worse."

       "It was bad enough," replied the Commissioner. "Having exiled himself by his follies from his own race, young Darnley did what others have done in like circumstances. He took a native for a wife, and settled in the jungle."

       "I have heard that he is dead. Is that true?"

       "Yes, quite true. The poor fellow died of jungle-fever, in my presence, two years ago. I closed his eyes, and helped to bury him. And I have in my possession a certificate of death, signed by an English physician who came several times to see the young man, from a distance of thirty miles."

       "And what of the wife? Is she still living?"

       "Yes, but her hours are numbered. She has been very ill of the same complaint that killed her husband, and there is no hope of her recovery."

       "I am sorry to hear that," said Clyde; and he really meant it. He pitied the Burmese woman, though he knew that she stood between Flora Ross and a fortune. "Has she any children?" he added, expecting an answer that would crush his hopes.

       "None," said Mr. Arnold, shaking his head. "There was a child of the marriage, born ten years ago, and there is some mystery connected with it. I am not sure whether it died or was stolen."

       "Stolen?" echoed the detective.

       "Yes, I have a dim impression that such was the case. I have never mentioned the affair to the woman. It occurred six or seven years ago, long before I came to the district."

       "This is very interesting, Mr. Arnold. You are suggesting that the child may be alive."

       "Possibly it is. I can't tell you."

       "I must get at the truth. If there is a child in existence it is the legal heir to Mr. Archibald Darnley's estate. The question must be settled to a certainty in one way or another."

       "I will gladly help you, if I can."

       "Perhaps the woman can give me some information," said Derek Clyde.

       "I will take you to her, if you like," replied the Commissioner. "We may find her alive, and able to speak, though I was told this morning that she would probably not live through the day."

       "Then let us be off at once," said the detective. "This is urgent and important. Have we far to go?"

       "Not very far," was the answer. "The distance is little more than three miles."

       Leaving Jock behind Clyde and Mr. Arnold started without delay, and having skirted the village, struck into a path that led into a part of the country that was practically uninhabited. For an hour they pressed on as fast as they could, through the wildest jungle that the detective had over seen; and then they came to a small clearing in which, by the side of a sluggish stream, was a hut that was thatched with palm leaves, and showed signs of falling to decay.

       And in this wretched and solitary abode, lying on a pallet of dried grass, the visitors found Roderick Darnley's wife, attended by a native girl who had been hired by the Commissioner. They had come none too soon. The sick woman was conscious, but she was very weak, and it was evident that her end was near. Though she was greatly emaciated, and her features had shrunk until the cheek-bones seemed to be protruding from the skin, there could still be observed traces of the beauty that had won the heart of the young Scotsman.

       The girl withdrew at a sign from Mr. Arnold, who stepped to the side of the bed. He lifted the woman's thin hand, and shook his head as he felt her pulse.

       "I have brought this sahib to see you, Shansee," he said. "He wants you to give him some information. He comes from your husband's far country, and knows people who were friends of his."

       The words roused the dying wife from her lethargy, and she looked up with interest at Derek Clyde. A sad wistful smile hovered at her lips.

       "You have a kind face," she whispered huskily. "You remind me of my husband, who was always good to me. He loved me dearly, though, I had a dark skin and he was white. My heart was broken when he died and left me alone. I did not want to live any longer. And now I, too, am dying, and I am glad; for I shall go to the white man's Heaven, and there I will find my husband again."

       The quavering voice faltered was silent. The few sentences that the woman had spoken had been so affecting, so intensely pathetic, that they had almost moved the two men to tears. The Commissioner's head was bowed, and there was a lump in Clyde's throat.

       "You would not have been lonely without your husband," he said gently, "if your child had lived."

       "Ah, my little Bo-Thaw!" murmured Shansee, beginning to weep at the recollection. "My lost one! How dear he was to me!"

       "Did he die of an illness?" asked the detective.

       "No, sahib, he did no die," sobbed the woman. "One evening, when he was three years old, he was carried off by a she-wolf while he was playing on the grass outside of the hut, and husband and I sought for him in vain. He may be dead, but I feel in my heart that he is alive. I believe that he was brought up by the wolves, and that he is now one of them."

       Derek Clyde and the Commissioner glanced at each other, and were at first startled. They could not credit the thing, however. They had heard tales of infants that had been carried off and nurtured by she-wolves that had lost their young — an authentic case of the kind in India had come to their knowledge — but they were not inclined to put any faith in what Shansee had told them. Yet such traditions had been handed down in history from the days of Romulus and Remus, the wolfsuckled founders of Rome; and as Clyde remembered this, as it occurred to him that truth was often stranger than fiction, he felt that this matter ought to be sifted to the very bottom. There had been a child, and he knew how important it was for him to prove that the child was either dear or alive, in order to satisfy Mr. Archibald Darnley's executors.

       "Tell me," he said, bending over the pallet, "was there any mark on your little one by which it might be identified?"

(To be Continued.)

CHAPTER IV. — (Continued.)

       "Yes, sahib, there was," the woman answered. "It is the law of my people, as you may know, that the names of the parents should be tattooed on the bodies of the children when they are a year old And that was done to my boy, on his breast, by old Leebaw, the wise fakir."

       "That is something worth knowing," Clyde whispered to the Commissioner.

       "I don't think so," replied Mr. Arnold, in a low tone, shrugging his shoulders. "Seven or eight years have passed since the, disappearance of the child, and I have no doubt it was devoured by the —"

       "No, no, my little one still lives!" broke in Shansee, who had overhead the remark. "He is not dead! I am sure, he is not, sahibs! He has grown up with the wolves, and he is a wolf-boy now! He has forgotten me! But I have seen him sometimes," she went on, "running swiftly through the jungle on all-fours, like a beast. I called to him, but he would not listen. And once he looked at me from the thickets, and uttered a strange, pitiful cry! If I could only see him again! Oh, my little Bo-Thaw! Come, to me! Come back home before I —"

       The poor woman could say no more. Exhausted by her efforts, her eyes closed, and she lay as one dead, save for her laboured breathing. She did not revive. A few moments later she peacefully passed passed, away as Clyde and the Commissioner were standing by the life less clay, deeply moved by what they had seen and heard, a low laugh of triumph fell on their ears, and as they swiftly turned they caught a glimpse, of a face that was just vanishing from the window — the evil face of Malcolm Darnley. They hastened out of the hut, but by then the young man had disappeared in the dense cover.

       "There is nothing to be gained by pursuing him," said Derek Clyde, more in sorrow than anger. "He has learned all, and he knows that he will now be able to establish his claim to the half of his uncle's fortune."

       "Unless you should find the wolf-boy," suggested Mr. Arnold, in a sceptical tone.

       "I shan't give any serious thought to that," replied the detective. "The woman was under a delusion, of course. At all events," he added, "my errand has not been unsuccessful. If the ed nephew inherits half of the estate, the other half will go to the brave girl who is earning a meagre living in London."

---

 
CHAPTER V.

       It was drawing towards the close of the day, though darkness would not fall for several hours yet, when Clyde and the Commissioner departed from the lonely hut, leaving the native girl to keep watch by the body of Roderick Darnley's wife. Saddened by the woman's death, and puzzled by what she had told them, the two men walked on in thoughtful silence, save when they exchanged a few words at rare intervals.

       They were so absorbed, indeed, that they did not notice that the sun was no longer glinting through the foliage, though it was still well above the horizon; they did not at first observe a pungent odour that hovered at their nostrils, nor did they pay any heed to a vague, far-off noise that was like the rising of a wind.

       It was not until they had gone nearly two miles, and were half-way between the hut and the village, that they caught the pungent, acrid smell, and at the same instant perceived that what appeared to be a grey mist was swimming in the air. And then, as they stopped and looked at each other, a dull roaring struck on their ears, and they heard other sounds that were like the muffled beating of hoofs.

       "The jungle is on fire!" exclaimed Derek Clyde.

       "There can be no doubt of it," declared the Commissioner.

       "Do you suppose we are in any danger?"

       "I don't know — I can't be sure. This is the dry season, and the vegetation is parched and inflammable; the fire will go through it like a race-horse. And we are in the track of the conflagration. It is approaching from our left towards the river."

       During this brief conversation they had begun to run, but before they had gone another half-mile the fire had made such strides in their direction that they knew they would have to alter their course. They could plainly hear the ominous roaring and crackling and could also hear confused crashing, floundering noises, which, they could not doubt, were made by animals that were in flight from the flames.

       "What are we to do?" Clyde said uneasily. "There are wild beasts coming in our direction."

       "Yes, that invariably happens when there is a jungle conflagration," replied Mr. Arnold. "Hundreds of animals are started from their lairs and driven before the flames. They are not likely to molest us, however. They will be harmless from terror. We are in less danger from them than from the fire. It will reach this path long before we can get to the village, so we will have to —"

       He paused abruptly, and pointed to a dim, narrow trail — it was hardly more than that — which branched off to the right. "This is our only hope," he added. "It is a sort of a path made by native fishermen, and it will bring up within a mile to the Irrawaddy, to a point where there are several canoes belonging to the peonle of the village of Pegu. Come, be quick. We must race for the water."

       "But what about the village?" Clyde inquired, thinking with alarm of Jock. "Won't that be destroyed."

       "No, it is safe," was the Commisioner's comforting answer. "It is surrounded by a wide open space that was purposely cleared as a protection from forest fires."

       No more was said for a time. Now fully awake to their peril, with a sickening dread in their hearts, the two men sped along the narrow, rugged trail, which they must soon have lost but for the walls of vegetation that shut it in. Fear lent them speed, but in spite of all they could do the fire steadily gained on them, and louder and louder in their ears rang its strident voice. Through the grey smoke, which was beginning to sting their eyes, they saw to right and left of them matted foliage, and full, feathery-headed trees, and grass that was a dozen feet in height, with blades like swords.

       And presently, to increase their panic, the wild creatures of the jungle began to overtake and pass them, some invisible and others in plain view. A thunderous pounding, and a blast like that of a trumpet, told that elephants were going by. To one side bounded a tiger, and then a bunch of deer; on the other side appeared a buffalo and a couple of hyenas, and close behind them wriggled a big, hissing serpent. Still they came, showing no fear of the human fugitives, and no inclination to attack them. Swarms of birds of all kinds flew noisily overhead, and troops of monkeys, chattering shrilly, swung through the boughs of the trees.

       "How much farther have we to go?" panted Derek Clyde, realising that he had never been in greater peril in his life.

       "Not much more than a quarter of a mile, I think," said the Commissioner.

       "We'll never do it, Arnold!"

       "We must, my dear fellow! We shall be roasted to death unless we can get to the river before the —"

       "By heavens, look at that!" broke in the detective.

       "I see it!" exclaimed Arnold.

       Three wolves had just bounded by, and now, shuffling at their heels, came a brown creature that appeared to be half human, half beast. It stood erect like a man, dropped to all fours, and rose up again as it vanished in the murky gloom ahead.

(To be Continued.)

CHAPTER V. — (Continued.)

       "What could that have been?" Clyde asked huskily.

       "I — I don't know!" faltered Mr. Arnold. "I never saw anything like it before! But I daresay it was a big ape!"

       They had no time to think of the strange thing that had passed them, so critical was their situation. It seemed, indeed, that they must surely perish, for close in their rear the flames were roaring and crackling, and a red glare was shining ahead of them; they could scarcely breathe for the thick smoke, and the heat felt as if it was shrivelling their flesh.

       "Faster, faster!" urged the Commissioner. "Don't despair! Don't give up!"

       "I shall soon be compelled to!" gasped Clyde. "I am nearly done for, Arnold."

       "Don't talk like that! Give me your hand, and I'll help you along!"

       "No, save yourself! Don't wait for me."

       But the ordeal was nearly over; there was to be safety for both of them. For a few more yards they plunged blindly on, fighting against fatigue, and at length, when hope was at its lowest ebb, they saw a silver gleam flashing in front of them, and emerged from cover on to a sandy margin that led to the broad, placid tide of the Irrawaddy river.

       "Thank heaven!" panted Clyde. "And now for the canoes! Where are they?"

       "There, close by!" answered Mr. Arnold. "Come along!"

       A few seconds later they had jumped into one of the narrow craft, and shoved it adrift, and seized the paddles that were lying on the bottom of it. With thankful hearts they drove the canoe well out upon the stream, until they were beyond the intense heat; and then, gasping for breath, they gazed at the scene around them, which was one never to be forgotten.

       Overhead rolled a dense pall of smoke, shot with myriads of sparks; and behind them the fire had reached the edge of the river, and was already sinking lower as it devoured the parched grass and vegetation. And to right and left, swimming for their lives, were numerous animals of various kinds, whose grunts, and squeals, and roars mingled with the crackling of the flames. Some were drowning, but the most of them were holding their own as the current swept them down-stream.

       The wind presently raised the smoke a little higher, and all of a sudden Mr. Arnold gripped the detective's arm with one hand and pointed with the other hand the next instant, as Clyde glanced in the direction indicated to him, a sharp exclamation burst from his lips.

       Within twenty yards or so, towards the father bank of the Irrawaddy, was the nondescript creature that they had seen go by them in the jungle. It was straddling the middle of a drifting log, to which it must have swam; and at one end of the log, facing it, a large serpent of the boa constrictor species was coiled in a menacing attitude. Its head was lunging to and fro, and it was evidently about to attack.

       "There it is again — that wierd thing!" said the Commissioner. "What can it be?"

       "It is going to have a fight for life, whatever it is!" exclaimed Clyde.

       "Look at it closely! Did you ever see anything like it?"

       "Never, Arnold! I can't imagine what —"

       "It cannot be a beast! It must be human!"

       "I believe you are right!" declared Derek Clyde. "Yes, it is certainly a boy! A wild boy!"

       "We must save it!" cried the Commissioner. "Be quick!"

       The words had no more than been uttered when the serpent flung itself at the wild thing, and then ensued a thrilling and desperate battle, which was watched by the two men as they drove the canoe rapidly over the water. The rabid hissing of the reptile blended with fierce guttural cries. The snake was trying to encircle and crush its victim and the boy — if such he was — had clutched his assailant by the neck, and was fighting hard to ward off the twisting, writhing coils, the while he kept his balance on the log.

       "Look sharp!" bade Mr. Arnold.

       The scene of the struggle had now been almost reached, and a moment later Clyde dropped his paddle, stood erect, and whipped his revolver from his pocket. He took a quick keen aim and pulled the trigger. Crack! And with the report of the weapon a bullet tore through the brain of the big serpent, which flopped on the log wriggling convulsively and was washed away in the current.

       The rescued victim would also have fallen in the water, so exhausted was he by the struggle; but as he was reeling he was grasped by the two men, who hauled him into the canoe, and looked at him curiously as he lay at their feet, too weak to offer resistance.

       "By heavens, he is a human being!" gasped the Commissioner. "I was sure of it! Ah, there are tattooed marks on his breast — two names in Burmese characters! This is the boy that was carried off from Shansee's hut seven or eight years ago!"

       "There is not a doubt of it!" exclaimed Clyde. "This is Roderick Darnley's son, and he is the heir to a fortune of £200,000!"

       "The heir to a fortune! This savage creature that has been brought up among the wolves! What an amazing discovery we have made!"

       "And what a task I have on my hands, Arnold!"

       As the detective spoke the spash of a paddle was heard, and there was seen for several seconds, within half-a-dozen yards, a canoe in which was the young man who had peered in at the window of Shansee's hut. Then the pall of smoke drifted low down on the water and the canoe and its occupant disappeared in the grey reek.

       "Malcolm Darnley again!" said the Commissioner. "He must have found his way to the river, and escaped as we did. I wonder if he heard us speaking of the boy?"

       "I am afraid so," Derek Clyde answered gravely. "He could hardly have failed to hear since he was so close. However, we'll see that he gets no opportunity of harming our captive."

(To be Continued.)

CHAPTER VI.

       The devouring flames had swept a quarter of a mile to one side of the village of Pegu, and in the dusk of the evening, after the fire had burnt itself out, Clyde and Mr. Arnold arrived at the latter's Bungalow, much to Jock's relief. They had brought their captive with them, slung like an animal from a stout pole; and, when they had taken him to a barely furnished room at the rear of the house, and had severed the fetters with which they had bound his limbs, he crawled under a table, and huddled up there with his hands and feet together.

       Having been dragged out, in spite of his attempts to kick and scratch, a dog-chain was fastened around his waist, and secured to a staple that had been driven into the wall; and then, by the light of the lamp, he was closely and curiously examined by the three men, Jock taking a keen interest in him as did the others.

       It was difficult to believe that this uncouth thing, this wolf-boy was little Bo-Thaw, the son of Roderick Darnley and his wife. Yet it could not be doubted that he was that from the names that were tattooed on his chest. His hair was long and matted, and brown at the ends; and his lean body, and thin, sinewy arms, were covered with scars. His teeth were worn to stumps and his fingers were like talons. His knees and elbows, and the palms of his hands, were hard as horn. Some old clothes were fetched, but it was impossible to put them on him, so fiercely did he resist. He was tempted in vain with cooked meats and biscuits, but when a plucked fowl was offered to him he seized it at once, and ravenously devoured it. And later on, after he had finished his savage meal, he discovered on the floor a wolf-skin rug, which greatly excited him. He smelled at it, and turned it over, and uttered plaintive howls that were like the cry of a jackal.

       "What a pitiful sight!" said Mr. Arnold.

       "It is indeed," assented Clyde, shaking his head sadly. "The boy is no better than a wild animal. He had lived with wolves since he was three years of age, and though he may be tamed, I doubt if he will ever show much intelligence."

       "And yet, by the irony of fate, he is the heir to a fortune."

       "Yes, Arnold, he is the grandson of the late Archibald Darnley."

       "It will be a big sensation he will cause in Glasgow," put in Jock. "Are you thinking of taking him there, sir?"

       "I don't know what to do with him, I am sure," replied Derek Clyde. "It is a difficult problem. He has his rights, and his future will have to be settled by legal proceedings. Under the circumstances, however, I imagine that the courts will put his claim aside, and direct that the merchant's estate be divided between the niece and the nephew."

       "I agree with you," said the Commissioner. "That will be the best way of solving the problem. And now let us go to dinner," he added. "It has been waiting for us for some time."

       At eleven o'clock that night Bo-Thaw, the wolf-boy, was curled up on a mat in the apartment which was his prison; and as a precaution against possible danger a Burmese servant, armed with a gun and a cutlass, was walking round and round the bungalow with the regularity of a sentry. And in a comfortable room at the front of the house Derek Clyde and his host were lounging in basket-chairs, with cigars between their teeth. They had been sitting here for several hours, discussing the staggering discovery they had made, and the probable effects of it; and now, having reached no satisfactory conclusion, they were beginning to feel drowsy.

       "It is the most difficult problem I have ever tackled," said Derek Clyde, in a peevish tone. "It preys on my mind, and I don't see how it can be straightened out to the advantage of all concerned. I wish I had never met that fellow Jebb! I wish I had not come up to this part of the country! Why didn't I decline to touch the matter? It will spoil the rest of my trip."

       "You may take a brighter view of it in the morning," replied Mr. Arnold.

       "I hope so," muttered the detective. "At present it is as complicated as a Chinese puzzle. I am going to turn in," he added, with a yawn. "Good-night, and thanks for your hospitality."

       With that Derek Clyde took himself off to his bedchamber, and as he had had a long and active day including a desperate run for his life, fatigue proved to be a stronger factor than his worries.

       He fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow, and the next thing he knew he was setting up, listening to a noise that sounded life a score of persons scuffling, snarling, and howling. He was bewildered for a moment, and then he suspected what the tumult meant. Having jumped out of bed, and pulled on a pair of trousers, he dashed into the hall, and was there joined by Jock and the Commissioner, who had been awakened at the same time.

       Mr. Arnold was carrying a lighted lamp, and without delay — the noise had now entirely ceased — he and his companions hastened to the apartment at the rear of the bungalow, and threw open the door, when a startling and tragic sight met their gaze.

       They had come too late. The worst had happened. On the floor, locked together, lay the wolf-boy and Malcolm Darnley, the latter dead, and the former breathing his last. A murderous blow from the butt of a revolver, which was lying near, had killed Bo-Thaw; and before that blow had been struck he had, obviously, taken a mortal grip of the young Scotsman, in whose throat his talon-like fingers were deeply embedded.

       A further discovery was made when attention had been drawn to the window, which had been forced open. Outside of it stretched on the ground, was Talmoong, the native watchman, unconscious, but not seriously injured. What had occurred was perfectly clear. Having stunned the watchman, and broken into the room, Malcolm Darnley had tried to kill the wolf-boy, and had lost his own life in the attempt. The judgment of heaven had dealt with him as he deserved.

       "Your task is finished, Mr. Clyde," said the Commissioner. "The problem has been solved for you."

       And Derek Clyde, standing with bowed head by the lifeless bodies, nodded gravely. He knew that Mr. Arnold was right, the problem had indeed been solved. The wisdom of Providence, forseeing and infallible, had ordained what was best for the wolf-boy.

       A few days later, after certain legal formalities had been complied with, and the earth had been heaped over the graves of Malcolm Darnley and of Shansee and her son, Clyde returned to Rangoon with his servant. He had left nothing undone, had omitted no link of the chain of evidence that was wanted by the Glasgow lawyers. He had brought with him papers, which he knew would put Flora Ross in possession of the whole of her uncle's estate.

(The End).