Can you, my reader, imagine a more tantalizing position than the one in which I now found myself? It took a great deal to arouse enthusiasm in the breast of old Mr. Staffurth, whose interest in the world had seemed to me as dried up as those musty parchments he was so constantly examining. But the mystery of it all had certainly awakened him, and he was as keen as myself to get to the bottom of it—and to the treasure, of which I had promised him a small portion as repayment for his services.

Next day I went down to Fresh Wharf and found the Thrush, with cranes creaking over her, looking more grimy and forbidding than ever. As I went on board the men one and all saluted me, and when I knocked at the door of the captain’s cabin there came a low gruff growl?—

“Well, what is it now?”

I announced who I was, and was of course at once admitted. Job Seal, in shirt and trousers, had been lying in his bunk smoking, taking his ease after a full night ashore in company with his “chief.” He had been reading the paper, and a big glass of brandy and soda at his elbow told its own tale.

“Come in, come in, doctor,” he cried cheerily, holding out his enormous hand; “I intended to come over and see you to-night. Well, what’s the latest news of Old Mystery?”

“As I told you, he’s in the hands of the first specialist in lunacy in London, and under treatment at a private asylum.”

“Will he get better?”

“Nobody can tell that. The doctor, however, anticipates that he will.”

“Well, I hope by the time I get back from this next trip he’ll have told you his story. We sail to-morrow on our usual round—Cardiff, Leghorn, Naples, Valencia, and home. But I don’t suppose we’ll be picking up any Noah’s Arks this trip—eh?”

“No,” I laughed. “I see that a paragraph has crept into the papers about our discovery, and it is discredited. One paper heads it ‘A Seaman’s Yarn.’ I suppose some of the men have been talking about it on shore.”

“Suppose so. One o’ them chaps from the newspapers came aboard yesterday and began asking all about it, but I blessed him for his inquisitiveness, and sent him about his business. What the dickens has it to do with him?”

“Quite right,” I said approvingly. “We ought to keep our knowledge to ourselves. People can believe or disbelieve, just as they like. If, however, they saw those bags of gold at the bank, I fancy it would convince them.”

“Or if they saw Old Mister Mystery with his red velvet jacket and sword,” he laughed. “Lor’, doctor, I’ll never forget the funny figure that chap cut when we hauled him out. He was real scared at first, wasn’t he?”

His words brought back to my memory that never-to-be-forgotten evening of our discovery. The mystery of how the cumbersome old vessel had got afloat again was not one of the least connected with it.

The reason of my visit was to tell him the result of my inquiries and the neat manner in which we had been foiled. Therefore, after some preliminaries, I explained to him all that I have set down in the previous chapter. He heard me through, blowing vigorously at his pipe and grunting, as was his habit. The amount of smoke his pipe emitted was an index to his thoughts. If pleased, his pipe burned slowly, the smoke rising in a tiny thin column; but if the contrary, the smoke came forth from pipe and mouth in clouds. The cabin was now so full that I could scarcely see across it, and when I arrived at the critical point and told him how I had been forestalled, he jumped up, exclaiming?—

“The son of a gun! He actually sold it for ’arf a quid!”

“He has,” I answered sadly. “If we could only get it back it might be the means of bringing wealth to all of us.”

“Then you really believe in all this yarn what’s written in the parchments, doctor?” he asked.

“How can I do otherwise?” I said. “There are signatures and seals. Besides, I have, I think, sufficiently proved that Bartholomew da Schorno, whoever he was, lived once at Caldecott Manor, and further, that the Knuttons were owners of the Manor Farm. You must remember, too, that Mr. Staffurth is an expert, and not likely to mislead us.”

“Well, doctor,” he said, “the whole thing makes a queer yarn, an’ that’s a fact. Sometimes I almost feel as though the overhauling of Noah’s Ark was a dream, only you see we’ve already got about a thousand quid to go shares in. Now, what I’ve been thinkin’, doctor, is that you’ll want a fair understandin’ if you’re goin’ to follow this thing up. I’ll be away, and shall have to leave it all in your hands. Now, I’m a plain-spoken man—that you know. For my own part, I’m content with the thousand quid we hauled aboard, and if you like to forego your claim to the half of it, I’ll forego my claim to whatever you may find ashore. Forgive me for speakin’ plain, doctor, won’t you?—for it’s no good a-beating about the bush.”

“Well,” I said, “if you are ready to accept such an agreement, I also am ready, although I think, captain, that you may be doing an injustice to yourself.”

But Job Seal did not see it in that light. He was a hard-headed British skipper, and regarded a safe thousand pounds better than an imaginary million. For that nobody could blame him. On the one hand I felt regret at giving up my share of the gold, but on the other it left me open to share the treasure, if found, with the unknown descendant of the Wollertons.

So we drew out together an agreement by which I relinquished all claim to the gold in the bank, and he, on his part, withdrew any claim upon any treasure discovered by means of the parchments found on board the Seahorse.

I could see that after I had signed the paper Job Seal was greatly relieved. He was but human, not avaricious, he declared, but urged to the suggestion by the knowledge that he must be absent, and would be unable to assist in the search ashore.

And it so happened that for five hundred pounds I bought out my friend the skipper. Who had the best of the bargain will be seen later in this curious chapter of exciting events.

I wrote an order to the bank to deliver up the gold at Seal’s order at any time, and after a final drink shook hands and left.

“I may be over to see you before we sail, doctor,” were his parting words; “but if not, you’ll see me, all being well, back in London in about five weeks. Good-bye,” he said, heartily gripping my hand; “and good luck to you in your search.”

At home in Chelsea I sat calmly reflecting, smoking the while and lazily turning over the leaves of the old fifteenth-century manuscripts, the Decretales Summa, the Trithemius, and others that I had found with the documents on board the Seahorse. They were evidently Bartholomew da Schorno’s favourite reading, which showed that though he might have been a fierce sea-dog he was nevertheless a studious man, who preferred the old writers in their ancient manuscripts to the printed editions. They smelt musty now, but showed how well and diligently they had been studied. He must have been a devout Catholic, surely, to have studied the Decretales of the Friar Henry so assiduously. It was his property, for on the last leaf of vellum, in faded i............