The thieves had made a thorough search of old Mr. Staffurth’s study. Every hole and corner had been methodically examined, an operation which must have occupied considerable time.
Neither Mr. Staffurth, his housekeeper, nor the servant girl had heard a sound. It seemed that only after searching the study thoroughly had the burglars turned their attention to the safe. There were three of them, the detective asserted, for there had been a shower in the night, and he found on the carpet distinct marks of muddy shoes. The instruments they had used on the safe were of the newest kind, and it seemed a mystery why they had not succeeded in opening it.
Having discovered the parchment with the seven signatures, they most naturally searched for the other documents found on board the derelict. Fortunately, however, the book penned by the noble Bartholomew remained in its place of security.
Of course this desperate attempt to gain possession of it removed all doubt that there was some one else besides myself endeavouring to solve the secret. But who could it be? Who could possibly know what was written upon those dry old parchments save Job Seal, Mr. Staffurth and myself? Seal was an honest man, quite content with the share of the spoil already in his hands, while it was to the interest of the old pal?ographist to solve the mystery in conjunction with myself.
Did the hoard of the sea-rover still exist?
Hundreds of times I put to myself that question. For answer I could only reflect that there was some one else, an unknown rival, who believed that it did, and who was sparing no effort to obtain the secret of its hiding-place.
Of course, it was quite possible that when the place of concealment was discovered it might be empty. Over three hundred years had passed, and in that time accident might have led to its discovery. There had certainly not been any betrayal of the secret, for while one cryptic document had been in the hands of the Knuttons, the key to it had been afloat, or submerged beneath the sea.
I took Mr. Staffurth aside, and we agreed to tell the police as little as possible, lest the facts should leak out to the newspapers. Therefore the old expert explained that the parchment books in his possession were precious ones, and most probably the thieves desired to obtain possession of them on behalf of some other person. So the detective, with an assistant, made copious notes, examined the marks of chisels and jemmies, and after a great show of investigation left the house.
“Ah, doctor,” exclaimed the old man with a sigh of relief, after they had gone; “I had no idea that our rivals were so close upon us. I think you had better deposit that book in your bank for greater security. The scoundrels, whoever they were, may pay me another visit.”
I expressed regret that he should thus have suffered on my account, but the poor old gentleman only laughed, saying, “My dear doctor, how could you help it? They want to get hold of the key to their cipher. Possibly, in their document, it is stated that there is a key to it in existence.”
“But how could they be aware that it is in your possession?”
“Because you are undoubtedly watched,” he said. “I shouldn’t wonder but what every movement of yours is known to your rivals.”
“Well,” I laughed, “fortune-hunting seems an exciting game.”
“Mind that it doesn’t grow dangerous,” was the old man’s ominous warning.
“But you don’t anticipate any personal violence, do you?”
“I think it is wise to be very careful,” he said. “You have a secret rival in these investigations of yours, and where a fortune is concerned some people are not over-scrupulous. We have here an illustration of their desperate efforts—the employment of professional burglars.”
“But if even we found the Italian’s hoard, would it not belong to the Wollertons?”
“I suppose it would. But,” smiled the man, “if we could not discover any Wollerton, and held the property for ourselves, I think our position would practically be impregnable.”
“The Government might claim it.”
“No. It would not be treasure-trove. We have all the facts concerning it in our possession. It would not be a hoard accidentally discovered and without owner. One-third of it, remember, has to go to a Knutton.”
“Yes, to that drunken fool down at Rockingham. He deserves, at any rate, to lose his portion,” I said.
Mr. Staffurth brought forth the old parchment-book from the safe, and opening it at a place marked with a slip of paper, re-examined the straight row of cipher letters with their equivalents, while I rose and looked over his shoulder.
“The writer was a careful and methodical man, even though he might have been a fierce and blood-thirsty sea-rover, and a terror to the slave-raiders. He certainly took the very best precaution possible so that the secret of the whereabouts of his hoard should not be discovered, for, as you see, the document left in the hands of the Knuttons was useless without this book, and the book useless without the document. It was evidently his intention to return to England and deposit the book in some place of safety, but before he did so disaster befell the Seahorse, and she went down.”
Together we packed the book in brown paper, tied it with string, and securely sealed it, using the seal upon my watch guard, and that same afternoon I deposited it with the bank manager, receiving a receipt for it.
But before leaving old Mr. Staffurth I assisted him to put his books in order, and we chatted together the while.
It was his opinion that if I went to Rockingham again I might obtain some news of the movements of the man Purvis. Indeed, he was in favour of my making a short visit there in order, if possible, to ascertain the identity of any person making inquiries.
“You see,” he said, “we are working quite in the dark. Our rivals know us, but we do not know them. That places us at a distinct disadvantage. If we knew them we might outwit them.”
I saw the force of his argument. He was a man of sound common sense, and never gave an opinion without careful consideration. It certainly seemed quite feasible that our rivals might be down at Rockingham or Caldecott.
“Do you think it worth while to rent the Manor House from the Kenways?” I suggested. “They are only too anxious to get out.”
“Is the rent high?”
“About fifty pounds a year.”
“Well, doctor,” responded the old gentleman, “I certainly think that the affair is worth spending fifty pounds upon. You see, you’ve bought Captain Seal out of it, and the matter is now practically your own affair. Besides, if you rented the Manor you would keep out your rivals. Yes. Most decidedly; go down and take the place for a year.”
“Not a very desirable place of residence,” I laughed.
“I know. But be careful these other people don’t again forestall you. Go down there to-morrow and make the bargain at once. The old place may contain the treasure, or it may not. In any case, no harm will be done by your being the tenant for a year.”
Thus it was that in the blaze of the noontide sun I next day passed up the little main street of Caldecott, traversed the somewhat odorous farm-yard, and entered the silent, moss-grown court of the Manor House.
A fair-haired slip of a girl came to the door in response to my ring, and after a little while Mrs. Kenway, who had gone to put herself tidy to receive visitors, entered the dining-room—that room which contained my pet abomination, furniture covered with brown American cloth.
T............