and all of us hurried off to the office. The register was produced, and in a heavy hand we found written the name, "José Luis, San Francisco," and after this, in the clerk's hand, "Stateroom No. 7."
"José Luis," I murmured, as I read the name. "He must be a Spaniard or Italian."
Dan and Oliver were studying the handwriting with interest. Suddenly Dan looked at his chum and both gave a cry.
"It's his writing!" cried Oliver.
"Whose writing?" I asked.
"Ramon Delverez'!"
"What!" I gasped.
"I feel certain Oliver is right," put in Dan. "I saw that hand on a lot of documents in Manila that Delverez had written."
"But how could he be on board?" I asked. "We left him behind."
"He overheard our talk—maybe he is following us," declared Dan. "He always was for following up a good thing."
"It must be true," sighed Oliver. "And now he has our money and, what is worse, those papers."
"If he stole the things he must still be on this steamer," I said. "Let us make another hunt for him."
My suggestion was carried out, and the hunt
