As soon as I entered Mr. Staffurth’s little study I saw by his manner that the discovery he had made filled him with interest.

“I have lost no time in going through your documents,” he said calmly, when I was seated by his table. “Your story of the finding of the strange ship with the mysterious survivor on board was most interesting, and last night, after you had gone, I turned my attention at once to this book, written by Bartholomew da Schorno.”

“And you have discovered the secret?” I asked eagerly.

“Not entirely,” he responded. “But I have deciphered sufficient to tell us a curious narrative, and to explain to some degree the mystery of the Seahorse. Are you acquainted with the history of Tuscany?”

I replied in the negative. I knew my history of England fairly well, but had never cared for the study of the history of other countries.

“In that case I must first explain to you a few historical facts, in order that you may rightly understand the situation,” he said. “During the late fifteenth century the southern coasts of France, and especially of Italy, from the Var mouth along to Leghorn, were continually raided by the Corsairs of Barbary, who ravaged the towns and villages and carried thousands of Christians into slavery, in Algera and Tunis. The great breakwater at Algiers was constructed by them, and at one of the gates of the city are still preserved the hooks upon which the unfortunate captives were hung to die if they offended their cruel taskmasters. So bold were these pirates and so terrible their depredations, especially in the country between Savona and the mouth of the Arno, that in the year 1561, by a privilege granted by Pius IV., an order of chivalry was founded, called the Knights of St. Stephen, the members being all of the Italian aristocracy, and the object to construct armed ships to sweep these Corsairs from the sea.

“The headquarters of the Order were in Pisa, then an important city, where they constructed a church which still remains to this day hung with banners taken from the Corsairs, a magnificent relic of Italy’s departed glory. The founder of the Order was Cosimo di Medici, who, according to the volume here”—and he placed his hand upon a folio bound in yellow parchment—“took the habit in the Cathedral of Pisa on March 15, 1561, of Monsignor Georgio Cornaro, the Papal Nuncio.

“I fear,” he continued, “that these are rather dry details of a chapter of the forgotten history of Italy, but if you will bear with me for a few minutes I think I shall be able to explain the mystery to a certain extent. These extremely rare volumes I have obtained from the library of my friend, Sir Arthur Bond, the great Italian historian, in order that you may examine them.” And opening the first at the title page he placed it before me. Printed in big rough capitals on the damp-stained page were the words: —

I pregj della Toscana nel’ Imprese piv ’segnalate de’ Cavalieri di Santo Stefano. Opera data in Lvce da Fulvo Fontana della Compagnia di Gesù. In Firenze MDCCI.

The other was a somewhat thicker but smaller volume, parchment bound like the first, its title being Statuti dell’ Ordine de Cavalieri di Stefano and contained in Italian a complete history of the Order, the bulls of the Popes concerning it, the regulations of its church and administration of its funds.

It was evident that Mr. Staffurth, although an elderly man, was not one to let grass grow beneath his feet. He pored over the books, blinking through his spectacles, and then continued his explanations, saying: —

“It seems that the first admiral of this primitive fleet was Guilio di Medici, and although the knights rowed in galleys against the stronger ships of the Turks they succeeded in capturing three of the latter on their first voyage in 1573. From that year down to 1688 they waged continuous war against the Corsairs, until they had burned most of the strongholds of the latter, and entirely broken their power on the sea. Now,” he added, “you told me something of a banner with a cross upon it.” And opening the bigger volume he showed me a large copper-plate engraving of one of the battles wherein vessels exactly similar in build to the Seahorse were engaged, and each was flying a flag similar to the one I had discovered.

“The Maltese cross,” he explained, “was the distinguishing badge of the Knights of St. Stephen who fought for Christianity against the Mohammedans, and succeeded in liberating so many of the white slaves. No movement was perhaps more humane, and none so completely forgotten, for even the Order itself is now discontinued, and all that remains is that grand old church in Pisa, nowadays visited by gaping tourists. From my investigations, however, it seems quite plain that the Seahorse was one of the ships of the Order, and although of English name, and probably of English build, its commander was the noble Bartholomew da Schorno, who had as lieutenant Pompæo Marie a Paule. The latter, as stated in the document with the leaden seal, was appointed commendatore by Cosimo the Second.”

“Then the fact is established that the reason cannon and armed men were aboard the Seahorse was because she was engaged in the suppression of piracy?” I said.

“Exactly. Your remark regarding the banner with the Maltese cross gave me the cue, and I have, I think, successfully cleared up the first point. And, furthermore, you have recognized in this picture vessels built on the same lines. This picture, as you will see, represents the taking of the fortress of Elimano from the Corsairs in the year 1613.”

“Then do you fix the date of the loss of the Seahorse about that period?”

“I cannot say,” he responded. “It might have been ten, or even twenty years later.”

“Not more?”

“No; not more. In these later pictures you will see that the vessels were of somewhat different build,” and the old expert turned over folio after folio of the rare and interesting volume.

“All this, however,” he remarked, “must be very dry to you. But you have sought my aid in this curious affair, and I am giving it to the best of my ability. We men who make a special study of history, or of palæography, are apt to believe that the general public are as absorbed in the gradual transition of the charter hands, or the vagaries of the Anglo-Norman scribes of the twelfth century, as we are ourselves. Therefore, I hope you will forgive me if I have bored you, Dr. Pickering. I will promise,” he added, with a laugh, “not to offend again.”

“No apology is needed, my dear sir,” I hastened to reassure him; “I am so terribly ignorant of all these things, and all that you discover is to me of most intense interest, having regard to my own adventures, and to the existence of a survivor from the Seahorse.”

“Very well then,” he answered, apparently much gratified; “let us proceed yet another step.” And he placed aside the two borrowed volumes. “Of course, I have not yet had sufficient time to decipher the whole of this volume written by Bartholomew da Schorno, but so far as I have gone I find that the writer, although of Italian birth, lived in England, and it is with certain things in England that occurred in 1589 and 1590 that he deals—matters which are mysterious and certainly require investigation.”

From between the parchment leaves of the heavy book he drew several sheets of paper, which I saw were covered with pencil memoranda in his own handwriting, and these he spread before him to refresh his memory and make certain of his facts.

“From what is written here in old Italian—which, by the way, is not the easiest language to decipher—it seems that Bartholomew, the commander of the Seahorse, was also a Commendatore of the Order of St. Stephen, and a wealthy man who had forsaken the luxuries of ease to fight the Corsairs and release their slaves. Most probably he was owner of the vessel of which his compatriot Paule was second in command. This, however, must be mere conjecture on our part for the present. What is chronicled here is most important, and it was in order to consult you at once that I telegraphed.”

Then he paused, slowly turned over the vellum pages with his thin white hand, glancing for a few moments in silence at his memoranda. He had worked for hours over that crabbed yellow handwriting; indeed, he afterwards confessed to me that he had not been to bed at all, preferring, as a true palaeographist, to decipher the documents in the quiet hours instead of retiring to rest.

“It seems that this Bartholomew da Schorno was an Italian noble who, falling into disgrace with the Grand Duke of Ferrara, sold his estates and came to live in England during Elizabeth’s reign,” he said. “As far as I have yet been able to gather, it appears that he purchased a house and lands at a place called Caldecott. In my gazetteer I find there is a village of that name near Kettering. The main portion of the manuscript consists of a long history of his family and the cause of the quarrel with the Grand Duke, written in a kind of wearisome diary. When, however, he comes to his visit to England, his audience with Queen Elizabeth, and his decision to settle at Caldecott, he reveals himself as a man aggrieved at the treatment he has received in his own country, and yet fond of a life of excitement and adventure. It was the latter, he declares, that after a few years’ residence in England induced him to become a Knight of St. Stephen and to sail the seas in search of the Corsairs in company with ‘the dear friend of his youth, the noble Pompæo a Paule, of Pisa.’ ”

“But the secret,” I said interrupting him.

“As far as I have yet deciphered the manuscript I can discover nothing of it, only the mention that you have seen in the commencement. The book ends abruptly. Perhaps he intended to explain some secret, but was prevented from so doing by the sinking of his ship.”

Such seemed a most likely theory.

“The reason I called you here was to suggest that you should go to this place, Caldecott, and see whether any descendants of this Italian nobleman are still existing. They may possess family papers, and be able to throw some further lights on these documents. The place is near Rockingham and not far from Market Harborough.”

This suggestion did not at that moment appeal to me. We were still too much in the dark.

“Have you read the other document?” I inquired. “I mean the one with the seven signatures and the seal with the leopard.”

“Yes,” he responded, and I noticed a strange expression pass across his grey countenance; “I have made a rough translation of it. The Latin is much abbreviated, but its purport is a very remarkable one. At the present moment it is, perhaps, sufficient for me to briefly explain the contents without giving you the long and rather wearisome translation.”

Then, taking up his pencilled notes again, he continued: “It is nothing else than a statement by this same Bartholomew da Schorno relating a very romantic circumstance. On a date which he gives as August 14, in the thirty-first year of Elizabeth’s reign—which must be 1588—he was sailing in a ship called The Great Unicorn, and when off the Cornish coast encountered a Spanish ship which vigorously attacked them. This vessel proved to belong to the defeated Armada, and had escaped the chase by Howard, but by clever manœuvring of The Great Unicorn—presumably a ship used to fight the pirates of Barbary—the Spanish galleon was captured after a terrible encounter with great loss on both sides. On board was found a quantity of gold and silver, jewelled ornaments, and other treasure worth a great sum, and this being transferred to The Great Unicorn, together with the survivors of the crew, the vessel itself was scuttled and sent adrift. Our friend Bartholomew was evidently commander of the victorious vessel, for he weathered the storm which practically destroyed the remnant of the Spanish fleet, sailed up Channel, and landed his treasure secretly at Great Yarmouth, afterwards concealing it in a place of safety. As his was not an English warship and he had merely assumed a hostile attitude and fought fair and square in self-defence, he claims that he was entitled to the gold and jewels that had fallen into his hands.

“The persons who knew the place of concealment numbered seven, all of whom signed a covenant of secrecy. They were Englishmen, all of them, and evidently the trusted followers of Bartholomew. The covenant enacts that the treasure shall remain untouched under the guardianship of one Richard Knutton, who was left ‘at the place of concealment’ for that purpose. The seven men each swore a sacred oath to make no attempt to seize any part of the gold or jewels, they having each received from their master an equal amount as prize-money. The remainder was to lie hidden until such time as the Order of St. Stephen should require funds for the prosecution of their good work of rescuing Christian slaves, when it was to be carried to Italy. This, of course, seems rather a romantic decision, but there is added a clause which shows that this Bartholomew was not only a chivalrous man, but was also fully alive to the wants of posterity.

“The second covenant provides that if the Order of St. Stephen never required funds, the secret of the existence of the treasure is to descend in the family of Richard Knutton alone, but two-thirds of the treasure itself is to become the property of the youngest surviving child of the family of Clement Wollerton, whom Bartholomew names as ‘my esteemed lieutenant, who has twice been the means of saving my life,’ and ‘the remaining third to its guardian, the descendant of the said Richard Knutton, seaman, of the Port of Sandwich.’ ”

“A very curious arrangement,” I said. “How do you understand it?”

“Well,” the old man remarked, fingering the yellow parchment with its faded scribble, “it seems quite plain that a large amount of treasure was seized from a Spanish galleon, brought ashore at Yarmouth, and concealed somewhere under the care of three persons—Richard Knutton, George A. Dafte, and Robert Dafte. If the Knights of St. Stephen have never claimed it, as most probably they have not, for they were a very wealthy association right up to the time of their extinction at the end of the seventeenth century, then the gold and jewels still remain concealed, the secret still being in the hands of the lineal descendants of Richard Knutton alone, and the heir to it, the youngest child of this Wollerton family.”

“But have you discovered the place of concealment?” I asked anxiously.

“No. I expect the secret mentioned in this volume written at a later date has something to do with it, but I have not yet deciphered the whole. On the other hand, however, I cannot help thinking that if seven persons were aware of the secret hiding-place, and had signed the covenant, old Bartholomew would scarcely write it down on parchment that might fall into an enemy’s hands.”

His argument was quite logical. There was no doubt that the Italian had at first intended to make a permanent record of the secret, but had afterwards thought better of it. He was evidently no fool, as shown by the testamentary disposition of the Spanish loot.

I took up the parchment, with its dangling seal, and noticed a dark smear across it. The old expert told me that the stain was a smear of blood.

“Then the secret is in the hands of some one named Knutton, and the right owner of two-thirds of the concealed property is a Wollerton?”

“Exactly.”

“Is there any accurate description of the treasure?”

“Yes. It is contained in an appendix in Bartholomew’s handwriting; a careful inventory of the numbers of ‘pieces of eight,’ the ornaments, bars of gold, and other objects of value. One gold cup alone is set down as weighing five hundred ounces.” And he turned over the leaves of vellum and showed me the inventory written there in Italian, a long list occupying nearly eighteen pages.

“The family of Knutton, knowing the secret, may have seized the treasure long ago,” I remarked.

“No, I think not,” was his reply. “In the document it is distinctly stated that a certain deed had been prepared and handed to Richard Knutton in order that it should be given to his eldest son and then descend in the family, and that so guarded was it in wording that it was impossible for any one to learn the place of concealment. Therefore, even if it still exists in the family of Knutton—which is an old Kentish name, by the way, as well as the name Dafte on the document, it would be impossible for the family to make any use of it.”

“Then where is the key plan of the place where the gold is hidden?” I queried.

“Ah, that, my dear sir, is a question I cannot answer,” he replied, shaking his head. “We may, however, hazard a surmise. We have gathered from Bartholomew’s own writings that he lived at a place called Caldecott, which would be about a hundred miles from Great Yarmouth, as the crow flies. Now, my theory is that he most probably transported the treasure by road to his own property as the most secure place for its concealment.”

“Most likely,” I cried, eagerly accepting his idea. “He would be much more prone to place it in his own house or bury it on his own lands than on property belonging to some one else.”

“Exactly. That is the reason why I suggest that you should take a journey to Caldecott and make inquiries if any of the names of the present inhabitants coincide with any of the nine names mentioned in this document.”

“Well,” I said, excitedly, “the affair is growing in interest. A treasure hunt here in England is rather unusual in these days. I hope, Mr. Staffurth, you can find time to accompany me for a couple of days down there.”

“No,” he declared, “go down yourself and see whether you can discover anything regarding persons bearing any of these names.”

Then taking a slip of paper he copied the seven signatures, together with those of Richard Knutton and Bartholomew da Schorno himself, afterwards handing it to me.

“The treasure may, of course, be concealed at Caldecott,” he said. “Indeed, if it is still in existence and intact, it is, I conjecture, hidden there. At any rate, if you make careful investigation, and at the same time avoid attracting undue attention, we may discover something that will give us a clue. The treasure, you must recollect, was placed in hiding about three hundred years ago, and it may have been discovered by some prying person during those three centuries.”

“Well,” I said, “it is quite evident that these documents themselves have fallen into no other hands except our own.”

“True; but seven persons, in addition to this Richard Knutton, knew the place where the loot was hidden. One or other of them may have broken their oath.”

“They might all have been on board the Seahorse when she was lost,” I suggested. “From the rough manner in which the agreement was prepared it seems as though it were written while at sea.”

“Exactly. It was certainly never prepared by a public notary. The men evidently did not think fit to expose their secret to any outsider—they were far too wary for that, knowing that the English Government would in all probability lay claim to it.”

“So they will now, even if we discover it. It will be treasure-trove, and belong to the Crown.”

“Not if it is claimed by its rightful owner—the youngest child of the Wollertons.”

“You don’t believe that this book contains the secret of the hiding-place after all?” I suggested.

“No. Unless my theory is correct that it was transferred from Yarmouth to Caldecott. Why should he have sailed in the teeth of that great gale from the Cornish coast right round to Yarmouth if he had not some object in so doing?”

“Well,” I said, “it forms a curious story in any case.”

“Very curious. This old Italian seems to have been an adventurer as well as a noble, judging from his own statements. The Turkish ships he seized in the Mediterranean he sold and pocketed the money, and more than once in the capture of the Corsair strongholds a big share of valuable loot fell to him. So it was not altogether from motives of humanity that he had become a Knight of St. Stephen, but rather from a love of profitable adventure.”

I recollected how I had stood beside a skeleton that was undoubtedly his, a man of unusual stature still wearing a portion of finely inlaid Italian armour such as I had seen in museums.

“He must have been a wealthy man,” I remarked.

“Undoubtedly. And, furthermore, if we discover the spot where the treasure is hidden, we may also discover the loot that he most probably secured and brought to England for concealment.”

“Is anything stated regarding his family?”

“He had one son, but his wife died of the plague in Italy two years after her marriage. The son he names as Robert, but no doubt he was not on good terms with him, otherwise he would have left the secret to him, and the treasure as an inheritance.”

I slowly turned over in my mind the whole of the strange circumstances. It hardly seemed credible that Richard Knutton, the guardian of the treasure, should die without revealing its whereabouts to any one, especially as his family was to profit one-third on its distribution.

This I mentioned to Staffurth, but the latter pointed out that the secret was probably transmitted in some unintelligible form, and would therefore be useless without the key. Besides, the family of Knutton were most probably in ignorance of what was contained in those documents, considering that they had been always at sea for the past three centuries.

Leaving old Mr. Staffurth to continue the deciphering of the Italian manuscript, I returned to Chelsea.

The Mysterious Man was seated at the window, his sword against his chair, covering sheet after sheet of paper with grotesque arabesques, wherein the Evil One seemed to be constantly represented. He took no notice of my return, therefore I awaited the coming of Dr. Gordon Macfarlane, the great lunacy specialist of Hanwell Asylum, who shortly arrived.

I introduced my patient, but the latter only grasped his sword and fixed the specialist with a stony stare.

Macfarlane tried to humour him, and asked him a few questions. To the latter, of course, he received no response. We both examined the quaint drawings, and the more we looked into them the more marvellous seemed the execution—the work of a madman, certainly, but such an intricate design that few first-class artists could imitate.

Macfarlane was, I could see, much interested in the case, and was quite an hour making his diagnosis. Presently, however, he took me aside into the adjoining room and said: —

“A very remarkable case, Pickering. I have only met with one which at all bore resemblance to it. Now, my own opinion is that the old fellow is at certain brief moments quite sane—a sign that he will, in all probability, recover. I should be inclined to think that his mental aberration has not been of very long duration, six months perhaps. He has certain fixed ideas, one of them being the habitual carrying of his sword. He also, I noticed, is interested in any mechanical contrivance—my watch, for instance, attracted his attention. That is a symptom of a phase of insanity of which a cure is hopeful. And as regards his dumbness, I believe that it is due to some sudden and terrible fright combined, of course, with his unbalanced mind. Do you notice his eyes? At times there is a look of unspeakable terror in them. With a cure, or even partial cure, of his insanity, speech will, I believe, return to him.”

This favourable opinion delighted me, and I thanked the great specialist for his visit, whereupon he admitted his interest in the unusual case, and said that if I would allow him he would take it under his charge in his own private asylum down at Ealing.

So next day I conveyed the Mysterious Man to “High Elms,” as the place was called, and, having left him in charge of the superintendent, packed my bag, and set out on the first stage of my journey to discover the whereabouts of the hidden loot.

I undertook it with a light heart, now that the responsibility of keeping the Mysterious Man in safety had been lifted from my shoulders, but so many were the mysteries which crowded one upon the other, and so many the secrets which circumstances alone unravelled, that I think you, my reader, will agree with me, when you know all, that the pains old Bartholomew da Schorno took to conceal the whereabouts of his treasure betrayed a cleverness which almost surpasses comprehension.

Well, I went to Caldecott about a month after landing in England, for a family matter occupied me in the meantime, and if you will bear with me I will tell you what I discovered there.

Caldecott was, I found, a very out-of-the-way little place. The pretty village of Rockingham, with its long, broad street leading up the hill and the old castle crowning it, was its nearest neighbour, for at that station I alighted from the train and walked through the noonday heat along the short, shadeless road pointed out by the railway porter.

The country in that district is of park-like aspect, mostly rich pastures with spinneys here and there, and running brooks; but on that blazing summer’s day, with the road shining white before me, I was glad enough when I got under the shadow of the cottages of Caldecott.

My first impression of the place was that the village was both remote and comfortable. The cottages were mostly well kept and nearly all thatched, with quaint little attic windows peeping forth here and there and strange old gable ends. Every house was built of stone, solidly and well, and every cottage garden seemed to be gay with jasmine, hollyhocks, sunflowers, and other old-world flowers. Not a soul was in the village street, for in that great heat the very dogs were sleeping.

Behind, on a slight eminence, stood a fine old church of Early English architecture, with narrow, pointed lancet-shaped windows similar to those in the choir of Westminster Abbey, and as I passed, the sweet-toned bell from the square ivy-clad tower struck two o’clock. Walking on a short distance I came to a small open space which in olden days was, I suppose the village green, and seeing an inn called the Plough I entered the little bar parlour and called for some ale. The place seemed scrupulously clean and comfortable, very old-fashioned, but well-kept, therefore I decided to make it my headquarters, and engaged a room for at least one night.

The young woman who waited upon me having explained that she and her brother kept the place, I at once commenced to make some inquiries. It was, I knew, most necessary that I should avoid attracting any undue attention in the gossiping little place, therefore I had to exercise the greatest caution. I gave her a card and explained my presence there to the fact that I was taking a holiday and photographing.

“By the way,” I said, standing at the bow window which gave a view on to the church, “whose house is that away among the trees?”

“The Vicarage, sir. Mr. Pocock lives there, a very-nice gentleman.”

“Has he been vicar long?” I inquired.

“Oh, he’s been here these five years, I think, or perhaps a little more.”

“And is there an old Manor House here?”

“Yes, sir. Right up the top end of the village. Mr. and Mrs. Kenway live there. They’re new tenants, and have only been there about a year.”

“Is it a large house?”

“One of the largest here—a very old-fashioned place.”

“Is it the oldest house?”

“Oh, yes, I think so, but I wouldn’t care to live in it myself,” and the young woman shrugged her shoulders.

“Why?” I inquired, at once interested and hoping to learn some local legend.

“Well, they say that all sorts of strange noises are heard there at night. I’m no believer in ghosts, you know, but even rats are not pleasant companions in a house.”

“Who does the place belong to?”

“To a Jew, I think, who lives in Ireland. Years ago, I’ve heard, the place was mortgaged, and the mortgagee foreclosed. But lots of people have rented it since then, and nobody within my recollection has lived there longer than about three years.”

What the young woman told me caused me to jump to the conclusion that the house in question was once the residence of Bartholomew da Schorno, and after finishing my ale I lit a cigarette and sauntered forth to have a look at the place.

I need not tell you how eagerly I walked to the top of the village, but on arrival there I saw no sign of the house in question. I inquired of a lad, who directed me into a farmyard gate, whence I found a short, ill-kept road which ended in a cul-de-sac, leading into a field. On my right was a clump of elms, and hidden among them was the quaint and charmingly old-world Manor House.

First sight of the place was sufficient to tell me that it had been allowed to fall into decay, and certainly it was, even in that summer sunshine, a rather dismal and depressing place of abode.

The old cobbled courtyard was overgrown with moss and weeds, and some of the outbuildings had ugly holes in the roofs. The house itself was long, low, and rambling, of Elizabethan architecture, with old mullioned windows, built entirely of stone, now, however, grey with lichens and green with moss on the parts which the clinging ivy had failed to cover. The outside woodwork, weather-beaten and rotting, had not been painted for a century, while upon one of the high square chimneys stood forth the rusty iron angle of a sundial, from which, however, most of the graven numerals had long ago disappeared.

The high beech hedge which formed one of the boundaries was sufficient proof of the antiquity of the place, but the trees of the broad pleasure grounds, which had no doubt once extended far away down to the river, had been cut down and the land turned into pastures, so that only a small, neglected kitchen garden now remained. The place, even in its present decay, spoke mutely of a departed magnificence. As I stood gazing upon it, I could imagine it as the residence of the lord of the manor in the days when peacocks strutted in the grounds, when that moss-grown courtyard had echoed to the hoofs of armed horsemen, and the talk was of the prowess of Drake, of Walsingham’s astuteness, of the martyrdom of Mary at Fotheringhay, and the fickleness of the Queen’s favour.

Determined to make the acquaintance of the present occupiers, even though it might or might not be the former residence of old Bartholomew, I went up to the blistered door and pulled a bell, which clanged dismally within, and made such an echo that I wondered if the place were devoid of furniture.

My summons was answered by a rather stout, middle-aged woman, who, in response to my inquiry, informed me that she was Mrs. Kenway. I was somewhat taken aback at this, for I had believed her to be a servant, but the moment she opened her mouth I knew her to be a countrywoman.

I was compelled to make an excuse for my call, so I invented what I conceived to be an ingenious untruth.

“I have called to ask you a favour,” I said, “My mother was born in this house, and being in the neighbourhood I am most anxious to see the old place. Have you any objection?”

“Oh, no, sir,” was the kindly woman’s prompt response. “Come in; you’re very welcome to look round, I’m sure. No, keep your hat on, there are so many draughts.”

“Is it draughty, then?”

“Oh, sir,” she said, shaking her head and sighing; “I don’t know what the place used to be in days gone by, but me and my husband are truly sorry we ever took it. In winter it’s a reg’ler ice-well. We can’t keep ourselves warm anyhow. It’s so lonely, and full of strange noises o’ nights. I’m not nervous, but all the same they’re not nice.”

“Rats, perhaps.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” And she led me along the narrow passage where the stones were worn hollow by the tread of generations, and ushered me into a small, low room where black beams ran across the ceiling. But, oh! the incongruity of that interior. Over the old panelling was pasted common wall-paper of hideous design in green and yellow, while the furniture was of modern description, quite out of keeping with the antiquity of the house. As she led me through room after room I noticed how successive tenants had, by papering and white-washing, endeavoured to turn the place into a kind of modern cottage home. Much of the old woodwork had been removed, and even the oaken doors were actually painted and grained! The staircase was still, however, in its original state of dark oak, and handsomely carved, and the stone balustrade which ran round the landing was a splendid example of Elizabethan construction. Half the rooms were unfurnished, but the good woman took me along the echoing, carpetless corridors and showed me the various chambers above as well as below.

Could that ruinous place be the one which the noble adventurer had chosen for the concealment of the loot?

The place certainly coincided in date with the written statement, but I had nothing to connect it with the name of da Schorno. Perhaps, however, some of the title-deeds connected with the place might tell me something, so I obtained from Mrs. Kenway the name and address of the landlord, a man named Cohen, living in Dublin.

“This isn’t at all the house me and my husband wanted,” she declared. “Our idea when we took it was to take paying guests, because I’m used to lodgers. I let apartments for six years in Hunstanton, and our idea in coming here was to take paying guests, as they call ’em nowadays. We advertised in the London papers and got two ladies, but they only stayed a fortnight. It was too quiet for them, they said. Since then several people have been, but I haven’t let once.”

I was certainly not surprised. If I were paying guest in that house I should go melancholy mad within a week. Besides, as far as I could see, the place was comfortless. An appearance of freshness was lent it by the new paper in execrable taste in the hall, and a gaudy new linoleum upon the beautiful old polished stairs, but beyond that the interior was just as dingy and cold-looking as the outside.

Indeed, so depressing was my visit that I was rather glad when it was over. One or two of the upstair rooms were panelled, with oak evidently, but the woodwork had been painted a uniform white, while the floors were rickety and suggestive of dry-rot.

She had another two years’ lease of the place, Mrs. Kenway regretted to say. They were trying to re-let it, for if compelled to keep it on until the end of the term it would swallow up all their slender savings.

“You see, we are earning nothing, except a little that my husband gets out of canvassing for an insurance company. But it takes him out so much, and I am left alone here from morning till night.”

I was secretly glad to hear of this state of things, because if I could prove that the house had belonged to old Bartholomew, it might become necessary for us to rent it and make some investigations.

Through the lattice window of the long, low room wherein I stood a wide view could be obtained across the neglected garden and the pastures beyond away down to the river, and as I looked forth it occurred to me to ask what rent was required.

“We pay forty-five pounds a year,” was her reply.

“Well,” I said reflectively, “I know some one who wants a quiet house in the country, and I’ll mention it to him if you like.”

“Oh, I’d be most thankful, sir,” she cried, enthusiastically. “The gentleman would be quiet enough here. There are no neighbours, and not even a passer-by, for, as you see, the road leads to nowhere.”

Again I wondered whether, concealed in that weird, tumble-down old place were the gold and jewels from the Spanish galleon and the spoils from the Corsairs of Barbary. Behind that panelling upstairs might be concealed treasure worth a fortune. As far as my cursory observations went, there was no likely place downstairs, unless, as in many old houses of that character, there was a “priest’s hole” cunningly concealed.

I went forth accompanied by the lady who was waiting in vain for paying guests, and examined the front of the house, which faced south towards the sloping pastures.

Walking a little way back into the wilderness of weeds which was once a garden, I looked up to the row of long mullioned windows, and saw in the centre of the dark grey wall a large square sculptured stone bearing the date 1584. Above was a coat-of-arms cut in the crumbling stone, a device that was in an instant familiar to me.

As my eyes fell on it I could not repress a cry of satisfaction, for there was the leopard rampant with the fleur-de-lys, the very same device that was upon the seal of the document with the seven signatures I had found on board the Seahorse!

Thus was it proved most conclusively that it was the actual house mentioned by Bartholomew da Schorno, for it bore his arms, with the date of either its construction or restoration.

I talked with Mrs. Kenway for some little time as an excuse to linger there, and when I left I held out strong hopes to her that I might induce my friend to take the remainder of the lease off her hands.

I had some tea at the Plough, with fresh butter and cream which, after those weeks on board the Thrush, were delicious.

Much gratified that I had at last discovered the house of the noble freebooter, I set to work to make inquiries regarding the family of Knutton, the hereditary guardians of the treasure, and of the descendants of Clement Wollerton, who, it appeared, had been Bartholomew’s lieutenant, and whose skeleton I had most probably seen on board the Seahorse.

The innkeeper’s sister was still communicative, so I asked her if she knew any one of either name in the village.

“No, sir, I don’t know any one of such name in Caldecott,” she answered, after reflecting a few moments. “There’s old Ben Knutton, who lives in Rockingham.”

“What kind of a man is he?”

“Well, his character’s not of the best,” she answered; “he’s a labouring man, but he’s a lazy, good-for-nothing old fellow, who frequents every inn in the district.”

“Married?”

“No, a widower. He lives in a cottage close to the Sonde Arms, in the main street of Rockingham.”

The description she gave was certainly not that of the hereditary guardian of the Italian noble’s treasure. Nevertheless, as he was the only person of that name in the district, I decided to walk back past the station and on to Rockingham, a distance of about a mile, and make his acquaintance.

It was a lovely summer’s evening, and the walk through the cornfields was delightful, although my head was filled with the strange, old-world romance which within the past few weeks had been revealed to me. The main point which occupied my attention was whether the treasure was still hidden—or had it ever been hidden?—in that tumble-down old Manor House. In order to make secret investigation it would be necessary to rent the place and carefully search every hole and corner. Some of those panelled, low-ceilinged rooms above were, to me, attractive. A good deal might be hidden there, or in the roof.

After some inquiries I found the man Knutton’s cottage, small, poorly-furnished, close-smelling, and not over clean. A slatternly girl of fourteen called “Uncle! You’re wanted.” And a gruff voice responded from the upstairs room. He came heavily down the narrow, uncarpeted stairs, a rough-looking type of agricultural labourer, in drab moleskin. His age was about sixty-five, with beery face, grey eyes, round-shouldered, and wearing his trousers tied beneath the knee, and boots that had never known blacking.

“Your name’s Ben Knutton, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Yes, sir. That’s my name.”

“Well, Mr. Knutton,” I said, “I want to have a few minutes’ chat with you alone.”

I noticed that he looked somewhat aghast. Afterwards I learnt that he was an expert poacher, and he probably believed me to be a detective. Through a decade or so he had had a good deal of the Marquis of Exeter’s and Mr. Watson’s game, and the major part of it had found its way by an irregular route to Northampton market.

He first went very red, then white, his hand trembled, and he had to steady himself for a moment.

“Just go out for a minute or two, Annie,” he said to his niece. “I want to speak to this gentleman. Take a seat, sir.” He pulled forward one of the rush-bottomed chairs from beside the rickety old bureau.

“Don’t think, Mr. Knutton, that I’ve come here with any hostile intent,” I said, in order to reassure him. “I’ve come to Rockingham expressly to ask you one or two questions regarding your family. I am making some investigations about the Knuttons, and perhaps you can assist me. Have you any brothers or sisters living?”

“No, sir, I haven’t. My brother Dick died this ten years ago.”

Dick! Then that man’s name was Richard Knutton!

“Did he leave any sons?” I inquired.

“Only one—young Dick. He enlisted, and was killed in Afghanistan.”

“He enlisted after his father’s death?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered, more at his ease.

“Your family is a very old one in this neighbourhood, isn’t it?”

“One o’ the oldest, they says. The Knuttons lived at the Manor Farm up at Caldecott for more’n a hundred years. But we’ve come down in the world since then.”

“The Manor Farm is the one attached to the Manor of Caldecott, eh?”

“It’s close to Caldecott Manor House. There’s fifteen hundred acres o’ land with it. And nowadays, sir, I often works on that self-same land for Mr. Banks, what owns it now.”

“Are you the oldest of your family?”

“No, sir, Dick was. I was the second. Dick was the lucky ’un, and was old Mr. Banks’ foreman for years; that was in the present Mr. Banks’ father’s time, when farmin’ was a lot better than what it is now. Lor’, sir, in this district three-quarters of the farms scarcely pay their rents. All the landlords ought to be generous like the Duke o’ Bedford; but they ain’t, and we labourers have to suffer.”

“More work and less beer,” I remarked, with a laugh.

“Well, sir, when you mention beer, I’d be pleased to drink a pint at your expense.” A remark which showed the rustic cadger.

“And so you shall when we’ve finished our talk,” I said. “Tell me, have you ever heard or known of any person called Wollerton?”

“Wollerton!” he repeated. “Why, now that I remember, that’s the very question the gentleman asked me the day before yesterday.”

“What gentleman?” I gasped.

“A gentleman I met in the Sonde Arms. He said he knew me, but I didn’t remember ever having set eyes on him before. He treated me and then asked me a whole lot of questions, some of ’em very similar to what you’ve asked me. I don’t understand what he or you—beggin’ your pardon, sir—are driving’ at.”

“But this person who was so inquisitive? What kind of man was he?”

“A middle-aged gentleman from London. He stayed the night at the Sonde Arms, and left in the morning. He was a tall, fair man, and funnily enough seemed to know a lot about my relations.”

“You don’t know his name?”

“No, he didn’t tell me.”

This fact was certainly strange. Was it possible that some other person was in possession of the secret of the hoard and had forestalled me in making inquiries?

This beery labourer seemed, without doubt, a descendant of the Richard Knutton whose signature was written upon the faded parchment. As guardians of the treasure, the Knuttons had apparently been given the Manor Farm in order to be constantly near the spot where the spoils of war were concealed. Their residence at the farm through generations appeared to show that instructions had passed from father to son, and had, until seventy years ago, been strictly observed. Then the family had fallen upon evil times, and the descendants had degenerated into labourers, the youngest enlisting as a private soldier.

“I suppose you told this gentleman you met all about your family, just as you’ve told me—eh?”

“Pretty well the same story.”

“What else did he ask you?”

“Well, he wanted to know one or two rather queer things about my family history—things I’d never heard nothing about. My father always did used to say that we were entitled to a big fortune, and he’d heard it from his father. Only that fortune ain’t come, and I don’t suppose it ever will. But both you gentlemen coming to me and asking the same questions has aroused my curiosity.”

“Ah!” I said. “Fortunes that are talked of in families are usually phantom ones. Why, there’s scarcely a family in England who don’t believe that they’ve been done out of their rightful inheritance.”

“I know that, sir. I could name twenty people in Rockingham who believe themselves the rightful heirs to property. That’s why I never believed the story about our fortune. My poor old father had to go on the parish before he died—a shilling a week and two loaves. So the idea of the fortune didn’t benefit him much.”

“But what was the story which your father told you?” I inquired.

“Oh, it was quite a romance. Half the people in Rockingham know about it, because when the old man used to get a drop o’ beer he always boasted of the great wealth that would be his some day.”

“But what was the story? Tell it to me as nearly as you can remember it.”

“Well, he used to say that long ago—hundreds of years, I think—the Knuttons were rich, but one son turned an adventurer, and accumulated a big treasure of gold and silver. This he hid away very carefully, because in those times there was no banks and places like there is now; but he left the secret in the hands of the head of the family, to be handed down for a certain number of years.”

“Then has it come down to you?” I asked quickly.

“No, sir, I only wish it had,” he laughed. Although a hard drinker, as I could tell from his puffed cheeks and unsteady hand, I was fortunate in finding him on that occasion quite sober.

“Perhaps the term of years ended and the fortune was realized,” I suggested, for to me it seemed more than probable that the secret of the hiding-place had been discovered long ago.

“No, sir, I think not,” was the old man’s prompt reply. “If it had, we should have all been in a better position. No, I believe the whole thing is a fable, as every one has declared it to be. Why here, in Rockingham, they used to call my father ‘Secret Sammy,’ because when he was drunk he always spoke mysteriously of what he called ‘The Secret.’ ”

“Have you any idea of the reason your family left the Manor Farm?”

“Owing to several bad seasons on top of each other. They were ruined, like hundreds of others. I’ve heard say that the last of the Knuttons who had the place used very often to go up to London by the coach, and he was fond of gambling. That was what really ruined him.”

“Do you know anything about the Manor House—who lived there when you were a boy?”

“Why that’s one of the questions the stranger asked me in the Sonde Arms,” he exclaimed.

Very curious certainly, I thought. Who could possibly be aware of the secret given up by the sea except myself, Mr. Staffurth, and Job Seal?

“And you told him, I suppose?”

“I told him that old Squire Blacker lived there with his wife and two daughters from my early recollection. They all died, except the elder daughter, who didn’t marry, and lived there for over twenty years, an old maid. When she died the place was bought by a Jew living in Ireland, and there’s been lots o’ tenants since. They never stay long because o’ the damp and the rats. I worked there seven years ago, helpin’ to do a drain, and the rats were something awful. I never saw such monsters in all my life. Young Jack Sharpe’s terrier killed nearly a couple of hundred of ’em in one day. The stackyard is so close, you see.”

“As far as you know, your family has never had any connection with the Manor itself?” I asked.

“I never heard it,” he replied. “We were at the Manor Farm for generations, as I’ve told you—but never at the Manor House.”

“And you don’t believe the story about the fortune awaiting you somewhere?”

“Well, sir, I wish I could believe it,” was the old man’s answer. “We’ve been awaiting for it long enough, ain’t we?”

I laughed, as though I shared his view with regard to the legend. At that juncture it was not my intention to tell him the object of my inquiries, and when he pressed me I turned the conversation into a different channel.

As I had promised, I went with him across to the Sonde Arms and regaled him with beer. Then when he saw the tangible reward for his communicativeness he endeavoured to assist me further.

“I say, missus, what was the name o’ that there gentleman who stayed ’ere the night afore last? You know—the gentleman who talked such a lot to me in yon little parlour?”

“Oh, he gave his name as Purvis—Charles Purvis, of London, is what he wrote in the book,” answered the landlady. “But I think you were a fool, Ben—a big fool. I didn’t like that man at all. He wanted to know too much about everybody’s business.”

“Yes, he was a bit curious like,” and the old man glanced meaningly at me. “But why was I a fool, missus?”

“Why to sell him that old bit of parchment. If nobody could make it out in Rockingham, there were lots of people up in London who could have read it. Perhaps it has to do with your fortune—you don’t know.”

“What!” I cried, starting to my feet; “did you sell the stranger a parchment? What kind was it?”

“It looked like a deed, or something of the sort,” explained the landlady, “and it’s been in Ben’s family for years and years, they say.”

“Young Dick gave it to me before ’e went a soldierin’. His father had given it to him, telling him to be sure and not part with it. So he gave it to me for fear he might lose it. It had a yellow seal a-hanging to it, and a whole lot o’ scrawly signatures. I showed it to lots of people, but nobody could make head nor tail of it.”

“And you sold it—the night before last?” I cried, in utter dismay.

“What was the good o’ keepin’ it? The stranger offered me half a sovereign for it, and I wasn’t the one to refuse that for a bit o’ dirty old parchment what nobody could read.”