The tide was low--so low that on the further side of the old wreck his paddles plunged once or twice into mud. Nor was it easy to swing himself on board; but a rusty chain helped him, and after one or two failures he stood upon deck.

All was desolation. He peered down into the hold, where the water lay deep and still; crawled forward, and peeped through a shattered deadlight into the forecastle. The water was here, too, though it had drained somewhat, owing to the depression amidships; but nothing to explain the mystery.

Mr. Fogo crept aft with better hopes of success, gained the p.o.o.p, and peered down the companion. The light was too dim to reveal anything.

Nothing daunted, he crawled down the ladder and into the captain's cabin.

The first thing to catch his eye was an empty packing-case, with a heap of shavings and cotton-wool beside it. On the side of the case was printed in blue letters--"_ Wapshott and Sons. Chicago. Patent Compressed Tea. With Care_." Mr. Fogo poked his nose inside it.

A faint smell of tea still lingered about the wood.

Next he inspected the cupboards. Some were open and all unlocked.

He went over them all. At the end he found himself the richer by--

A watch-gla.s.s.

Three bra.s.s b.u.t.tons (one bearing the initials P. J., and all coated with verdigris).

A pair of nut-crackers.

Several leaves of a devotional work ent.i.tled "Where shall I be To-morrow? or, Thoughts for Mariners."

A key.

An oily rag.

The cap of a telescope.

An empty bottle, labelled, and bearing in faded ink: "Poison.

For d.i.c.k Collins, when his leg is bad."

On the whole this was not encouraging. Mr. Fogo was turning to abandon the search, when something upon the cabin-floor caught his eye.

He stooped and picked it up. It was a lady's glove.

Mr. Fogo turned it over in his hand. It was a dainty six-b.u.t.toned glove, of a light tan colour, and showed scarcely a trace of wear.

"This is very odd," muttered he; "I can hardly fancy a smuggler wearing this, still less a ghost."

With his thoughts still running on the woman he had seen upon the deck, he advanced to the packing-case again, and was beginning absently to kick aside the heap of shavings and cotton-wool, when his foot encountered some hard object. He bent down and drew it forth.

It was a small tin case or canister, of oblong shape, and measured some four inches by two. It was perhaps two inches in depth. On the cover was a label, and on the label the legend--

"WAPSHOTTS' PATENT COMPRESSED TEA."

"_Beware of Imitations._"

The lid was lightly soldered, and the canister remarkably heavy.

Mr. Fogo pulled out his pocket-knife, sat down on the edge of the packing-case, and began to open his prize.

He had broken one blade in trying to unfasten the solder, and was beginning with the second, when it occurred to him to cut through the soft metal of the canister. In a few minutes he had worked a considerable hole in the lid.

"Very curious tea this," remarked Mr. Fogo. "It's a deal more like putty--or Californian honey."

The light in the cabin was faint; he determined to carry the canister on deck and examine it in the sunlight.

He picked his way up the ladder, and was just emerging from the hatch, when the sudden glare of the sun caused him to blink and then sneeze. He caught his toe on the last step, stumbled, dropped his prize, and fell forward on to the deck. The canister struck the step, jolted twice, plunged to the bottom with a smart thud--

There was a flash of jagged flame, a loud roar, a heave and crash of riven timbers--and the old hull had pa.s.sed from decay to annihilation.

This would seem a convenient moment for regulating our watches, which have gained considerably, and putting back the hands to half-past ten, at which hour the bells of St. Symphorian's, Troy, began to summon the town to worship.

A few minutes later the town sallied forth in pairs and decorous excitement. It was dying to see Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys' costume, and marched churchwards in haste. But to-day it halted for the most part at the church-porch, and went no further.

Who first whispered the news is disputed. It is conjectured that Mrs. Tripp, whose cow supplied "The Bower" with milk, learnt the facts from the b.u.t.toned youth when she paid her professional call at 7.30 a.m.; but none knew for certain. I might here paint Mrs. Tripp full of tongues, and dress her up as "Rumour," after the best epic models; but in saying that she had the usual number of lips and hands, that her parents were respectable, and that she never shrieked from a lofty tower in her life, I only do her the barest justice.

This much is sure--that among the knot of loungers at the church-gate such sentences as the following pa.s.sed from mouth to mouth--

"Es et true, do'ee think?"

"Certain--carr'ge an' pair from Five Lanes las' night--not a word said."

"My!"

"Ef so, this town's been purtily robbed."

"That's a true word."

Then this happened--

The Trojan in broadcloth heard, as he pa.s.sed, the words of the Trojan in corduroy; inquired, shook his head, and walked on; doubted; turned back to hear more; consulted his wife; and decided to go and see.

The consequence was that at ten minutes to eleven the stream of church-goers descending along the Parade was met by another stream rolling towards "The Bower" and every moment gathering volume.

As there was no place of worship in this direction, a conference followed the confluence. The churchgoers turned, joined the larger stream, and the whole flood poured uphill.

Outside "The Bower" they halted for a moment. One tradesman, a furniture dealer, bolder than the rest, advanced to the front-door and knocked.

The boy in b.u.t.tons answered with a white face. In a moment the truth was out.

This whisper among the crowd grew to a murmur, the murmur to a roar.

In vain the church-bell tolled out the single note that summons the parson. The dismay of the cheated town waxed to hot indignation.

Even Miss Limpenny, issuing from her front door, heard the news, and returned in a stupor to watch matters from her bedroom window.

She had not missed a morning service for fourteen years.

Then as if by one impulse pa.s.sion gave way to action. Like an invading army the townspeople poured in at the gate, trampling the turf and crushing the flower-beds. They forced the front door (whence the page fled, to hide in the cellar), pushed into the hall, swarmed into the drawing-room--upstairs--all over the house.

Only in the bedrooms were there signs of a hasty flight; but they were enough. The strangers had decamped. There was a pause of indecision, but for no long time.

"Sunday or no Sunday," screamed the choleric upholsterer, "every stick of mine will I take off this morning!"

He tucked up his sleeves, and, flinging open the French window of the drawing-room, caught up an arm-chair, and began to drag it out towards the lawn.

A cheer followed. The Trojan blood was up.