“I haven’t the least idea,” replied Rose.
“Does it look as though it might be a part of a mail-bag?” asked Sartoris. “Look at the sealing-wax sticking to it. Now look at that.” He drew from the deep of another pocket a rusty knife.
“It was found near the other,” he said. “Its blade was open. And what’s that engraved on the name-plate?—your eyes are younger than mine, my dear.” The sailor handed the knife to Rose, who read the name, and exclaimed, “B. Tresco!”
“That’s what the Pilot made it,” said Sartoris. “And it’s what I made it. We’re all agreed that B. Tresco, whoever he may be, was the owner of that knife. Now this is evidence: that knife was found in conjunction with this here bit of brown canvas, which I take to be part of a mail-bag; and the two of ’em were beside the ashes of a fire, above high water-mark. On a certain night I saw a fire lighted at that spot: that night was the night the skipper of the barque died and the night when the mails were robbed. You see, when things are pieced together it looks bad for B. Tresco.”
“I know him quite well,” said Rose: “he’s the goldsmith. What would he have to do with the delivery of mails?”
“Things have got this far,” said the Pilot. “The postal authorities say all the bags weren’t delivered on board. They don’t accuse anyone of robbery as yet, but they want the names of the boat’s crew. These Mr. Crookenden says he can’t give, as the crew was a special one, and the man in charge of the boat is away. But from the evidence that Sartoris has brought, it looks as if Tresco could throw light on the matter.”
“It’s for the police to take the thing up,” said Sartoris. “I’m not a detective meself; I’m just a plain sailor—I don’t pretend to be good at following up clues. But if the police want this here clue, they can have it. It’s the best one of its kind I ever come across: look at it from whatever side you please. It’s almost as perfect a clue as you could have, if you had one made to order. A policeman that couldn’t follow up that clue——‘Tresco’ on the knife, and, alongside of it, the bit of mail-bag—why, he ought to be turned loose in an unsympathising world, and break stones for a living. It’s a beautiful clue. It’s a clue a man can take a pride in; found all ready on the beach; just a-waitin’ to be picked up, and along comes a chuckle-headed old salt and grabs it. Now, that clue ought to be worth a matter of a hundred pound to the Government. What reward is offered, Pilot?”
“There’s none, as I’m aware of,” answered Summerhayes. “But if the post-master is a charitable sort of chap, he might be inclined to recommend, say, fifty; you bein’ a castaway sailor in very ’umble circumstances. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll see the Mayor.”
“Oh, you will!” exclaimed Sartoris. “You’d better advertise: ‘Poor, distressed sailor. All contributions thankfully received.’ No, sir, don’t think you can pauperise me. A man who can find a clue like that”—he brought the palm of his right hand down with a smack upon the table, where Tresco’s knife lay—“a man who can find that, sir, can make his way in any community!”
Just at that moment there were heavy footsteps upon the verandah, and a knocking at the front door.