We stove it in, emptied the stuff
into the boat, and made our way back to the ship.
The fourth day we had scarcely started to dig before Klootz struck on
a second chest that sounded like another full one--
Here Miss Belcher turned a page, glanced overleaf, and came to a full
stop.
"For pity's sake, Lydia--" protested Mr. Rogers, who sat leaning
forward, his elbows on the table.
"There's no more," Miss Belcher announced.
"No more?"
"Not a word." She fumbled quickly through the remaining blank
leaves. "Not a word more," she repeated.
"Death cut short his hand," said Captain Branscome, his voice
breaking in upon a long silence.
"Cut short his fiddlestick-end!" snapped Miss Belcher. "The man
funked it at the last moment--started out promising to tell the whole
truth, but refused the fence. Look back at the story, and you can
see him losing heart. Just note that when he comes to A. G.--that's
the man Aaron Glass, I suppose--he dares not write down the man's
name. There has been foul work, and he's afraid of it. That's as
plain as the nose on my face."
"But what's to be done?" asked Mr. Rogers, picking up the manuscript
and turning its pages irritably.
"Dear me," said a voice, "there is surely but one thing to be done!
We must go and search for ourselves.
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