I slipped the bolt at once, and we stood and panted for a moment in the dark, alone in the house with the dead captain’s body.  Then my mother got a candle in the bar, and holding each other’s hands, we advanced into the parlour.  He lay as we had left him, on his back, with his eyes open and one arm stretched out.

“Draw down the blind, Jim,” whispered my mother; “they might come and watch outside.  And now,” said she when I had done so, “we have to get the key off that; and who’s to touch it, I should like to know!” and she gave a kind of sob as she said the words.

I went down on my knees at once.  On the floor close to his hand there was a little round of paper, blackened on the one side.  I could not doubt that this was the black spot; and taking it up, I found written on the other side, in a very good, clear hand, this short message:  “You have till ten tonight.”

“He had till ten, Mother,” said I; and just as I said it, our old clock began striking.  This sudden noise startled us shockingly; but the news was good, for it was only six.

“Now, Jim,” she said, “that key.”

I felt in his pockets, one after another.  A few small coins, a thimble, and some thread and big needles, a piece of pigtail tobacco bitten away at the end, his gully with the crooked handle, a pocket compass, and a tinder box were all that they contained, and I began to despair.

“Perhaps it’s round his neck,” suggested my mother.

Overcoming a strong repugnance, I tore open his shirt at the neck, and there, sure enough, hanging to a bit of tarry string, which I cut with his own gully, we found the key.  At this triumph we were filled with hope and hurried upstairs without delay to the little room where he had slept so long and where his box had stood since the day of his arrival.

It was like any other seaman’s chest on the outside, the initial “B” burned on the top of it with a hot iron, and the corners somewhat smashed and broken as by long, rough usage.

“Give me the key,” said my mother; and though the lock was very stiff, she had turned it and thrown back the lid in a twinkling.

A strong smell of tobacco and tar rose from the interior, but nothing was to be seen on the top except a suit of very good clothes, carefully brushed and folded.  They had never been worn, my mother said.  Under that, the miscellany began—­a quadrant, a tin canikin, several sticks of tobacco, two brace of very handsome pistols, a piece of bar silver, an old Spanish watch and some other trinkets of little value and mostly of foreign make, a pair of compasses mounted with brass, and five or six curious West Indian shells.  I have often wondered since why he should have carried about these shells with him in his wandering, guilty, and hunted life.

In the meantime, we had found nothing of any value but the silver and the trinkets, and neither of these were in our way.  Underneath there was an old boat-cloak, whitened with sea-salt on many a harbour-bar.  My mother pulled it up with impatience, and there lay before us, the last things in the chest, a bundle tied up in oilcloth, and looking like papers, and a canvas bag that gave forth, at a touch, the jingle of gold.