Chapter Six.
The Rencontre.
“This is an unexpected pleasure,” says Solomon.
“Delighted, I’m sure,” says Septimus, craftily.
Then they talk of the weather, eyeing one another like practised fencers in a death struggle.
“Ha! ha!” thinks Sep; “he has heard of the sunken doubloons.”
“Ha! ha!” thinks Solomon. “If he only knew I had that plaster cast in my pocket!”
“Are you making a long stay here?” says the former naïvely.
“Depends,” is the dark, laconic reply.
“Sorry I must leave you for a little,” says Sep. “An appointment.”
And he takes a magnificent header from the cliff into the very spot where the wrecked gold-ship lies buried.
When, after a couple of hours, he rose to the surface for breath, Sep was relieved to find himself alone.
“Peeler was right,” said he to himself, flinging back the matted hair from his noble brow. “My fortune is made.”
And he dived again.
In the damp cabin of the sunk ship stood the gaunt form of many a brave mariner, faithful to his post even in death. Seth gave them a passing glance, and shuddered a little as he met their glassy eyes. He was about to rise to the surface with the remainder of his booty, when the figure nearest the door fell against him.
Turning on him, a cold perspiration suffused our hero from head to foot, and his hair rose like porcupine quills on his head.
It was not a corpse, but Solomon Smellie, the detective of Scotland Yard.
Sep had barely time to close to the cabin door, and strike out with his precious bags for the surface. He felt he had had a narrow escape of detection, and that the sooner he sought a change of climate the better.
As for Solomon, it would have needed a strong door to keep him from his prey.
“Ha, ha!” said he, “the chain grows link by link. Two and two make four. Patience, Solomon, and you will be famous yet.”