“For God’s sake, think what you are doing, sir!” cried the mate.  “Two men have lost their lives over it, and the blood of one not yet dry upon the carpet.”

“The more reason why we should revenge him.”

“Well, sir, at least let me call the carpenter.  Three are better than two, and he is a good stout man.”

He went off in search of him, and I was left alone with the striped chest in the cabin.  I don’t think that I’m a nervous man, but I kept the table between me and this solid old relic of the Spanish Main.  In the growing light of morning the red and white striping was beginning to appear, and the curious scrolls and wreaths of metal and carving which showed the loving pains which cunning craftsmen had expended upon it.  Presently the carpenter and the mate came back together, the former with a hammer in his hand.

“It’s a bad business, this, sir,” said he, shaking his head, as he looked at the body of the mate.  “And you think there’s someone hiding in the box?”

“There’s no doubt about it,” said Allardyce, picking up the screwdriver and setting his jaw like a man who needs to brace his courage.  “I’ll drive the lock back if you will both stand by.  If he rises let him have it on the head with your hammer, carpenter.  Shoot at once, sir, if he raises his hand.  Now!”

He had knelt down in front of the striped chest, and passed the blade of the tool under the lid.  With a sharp snick the lock flew back.  “Stand by!” yelled the mate, and with a heave he threw open the massive top of the box.  As it swung up we all three sprang back, I with my pistol levelled, and the carpenter with the hammer above his head.  Then, as nothing happened, we each took a step forward and peeped in.  The box was empty.

Not quite empty either, for in one corner was lying an old yellow candle-stick, elaborately engraved, which appeared to be as old as the box itself.  Its rich yellow tone and artistic shape suggested that it was an object of value.  For the rest there was nothing more weighty or valuable than dust in the old striped treasure-chest.

“Well, I’m blessed!” cried Allardyce, staring blankly into it.  “Where does the weight come in, then?”

“Look at the thickness of the sides, and look at the lid.  Why, it’s five inches through.  And see that great metal spring across it.”

“That’s for holding the lid up,” said the mate.  “You see, it won’t lean back.  What’s that German printing on the inside?”

“It means that it was made by Johann Rothstein of Augsburg, in 1606.”

“And a solid bit of work, too.  But it doesn’t throw much light on what has passed, does it, Captain Barclay?  That candlestick looks like gold.  We shall have something for our trouble after all.”

He leant forward to grasp it, and from that moment I have never doubted as to the reality of inspiration, for on the instant I caught him by the collar and pulled him straight again.  It may have been some story of the Middle Ages which had come back to my mind, or it may have been that my eye had caught some red which was not that of rust upon the upper part of the lock, but to him and to me it will always seem an inspiration, so prompt and sudden was my action.