It is requested (said the note) that the various old Spanish and Indian curiosities, which came out of the Santarem collection, and which are consigned to Prontfoot & Neuman of Oxford Street, London, should be put in some place where there may be no danger of these very valuable and unique articles being injured or tampered with.  This applies most particularly to the treasure-chest of Don Ramirez di Leyra, which must on no account be placed where anyone can get at it.

The treasure-chest of Don Ramirez!  Unique and valuable articles!  Here was a chance of salvage after all.  I had risen to my feet with the paper in my hand when my Scotch mate appeared in the doorway.

“I’m thinking all isn’t quite as it should be aboard of this ship, sir,” said he.  He was a hard-faced man, and yet I could see that he had been startled.

“What’s the matter?”

“Murder’s the matter, sir.  There’s a man here with his brains beaten out.”

“Killed in the storm?” said I.

“May be so, sir, but I’ll be surprised if you think so after you have seen him.”

“Where is he, then?”

“This way, sir; here in the maindeck house.”

There appeared to have been no accommodation below in the brig, for there was the after-house for the captain, another by the main hatchway, with the cook’s galley attached to it, and a third in the forecastle for the men.  It was to this middle one that the mate led me.  As you entered, the galley, with its litter of tumbled pots and dishes, was upon the right, and upon the left was a small room with two bunks for the officers.  Then beyond there was a place about 12ft. square, which was littered with flags and spare canvas.  All round the walls were a number of packets done up in coarse cloth and carefully lashed to the woodwork.  At the other end was a great box, striped red and white, though the red was so faded and the white so dirty that it was only where the light fell directly upon it that one could see the colouring.  The box was, by subsequent measurement, 4ft. 3ins. in length, 3ft. 2ins. in height, and 3ft. across—­considerably larger than a seaman’s chest.  But it was not to the box that my eyes or my thoughts were turned as I entered the store-room.  On the floor, lying across the litter of bunting, there was stretched a small, dark man with a short, curling beard.  He lay as far as it was possible from the box, with his feet towards it and his head away.  A crimson patch was printed upon the white canvas on which his head was resting, and little red ribbons wreathed themselves round his swarthy neck and trailed away on to the floor, but there was no sign of a wound that I could see, and his face was as placid as that of a sleeping child.  It was only when I stooped that I could perceive his injury, and then I turned away with an exclamation of horror.  He had been pole-axed; apparently by some person standing behind him.  A frightful blow had smashed in the top of his head and penetrated deeply into his brains.  His face might well be placid, for death must have been absolutely instantaneous, and the position of the wound showed that he could never have seen the person who had inflicted it.