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-glass.
Three brass buttons (one bearing the initials P. J., and all
coated with verdigris).
A pair of nut-crackers.
Several leaves of a devotional work entitled "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 Dick 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-buttoned
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.
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