Left to himself, Mr. Fogo spent a tranquil hour among his roses; and then, remembering his determination, unmoored his boat and prepared to satisfy his doubts.

The tide was low—­so low that on the further side of the old wreck his paddles plunged once or twice into mud.  Nor was it easy to swing himself on board; but a rusty chain helped him, and after one or two failures he stood upon deck.

All was desolation.  He peered down into the hold, where the water lay deep and still; crawled forward, and peeped through a shattered deadlight into the forecastle.  The water was here, too, though it had drained somewhat, owing to the depression amidships; but nothing to explain the mystery.

Mr. Fogo crept aft with better hopes of success, gained the poop, and peered down the companion.  The light was too dim to reveal anything.  Nothing daunted, he crawled down the ladder and into the captain’s cabin.

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.”

With his thoughts still running on the woman he had seen upon the deck, he advanced to the packing-case again, and was beginning absently to kick aside the heap of shavings and cotton-wool, when his foot encountered some hard object.  He bent down and drew it forth.

It was a small tin case or canister, of oblong shape, and measured some four inches by two.  It was perhaps two inches in depth.  On the cover was a label, and on the label the legend—­

“WAPSHOTTS’ PATENT COMPRESSED TEA.”

“Beware of Imitations.”

The lid was lightly soldered, and the canister remarkably heavy.

Mr. Fogo pulled out his pocket-knife, sat down on the edge of the packing-case, and began to open his prize.