“Where are your people?”
“Dead.”
“All of them?”
Nadara nodded affirmatively.
“How long have they been dead and what killed them?” continued Burlinghame.
“Almost a moon. The Great Nagoola killed them.”’
In answer to other questions Nadara related all that had transpired since the night of the earthquake. Her description of the catastrophe convinced the Americans that a violent quake had recently occurred to shake the island to its foundations.
“Ask her about Waldo,” whispered Mr. Smith-Jones, himself dreading to put the question.
“We are looking for a young man,” said Burlinghame, “who was lost overboard from a steamer on the west coast of this island. We know that he reached the shore alive, for we have heard from him. Have you ever seen or heard of this stranger? His name is Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones—this gentleman is his father,” indicating Mr. Smith-Jones.
Nadara looked with wide eyes at John Alden Smith-Jones. So this man was Thandar’s father. She felt very sorry for him, for she knew that he loved Thandar—Thandar had often told her so.
