Together we pulled the unfortunate fellow from under the table, and as we looked at his dripping head we exchanged glances, and I do not know which was the paler of the two.
“The same as the Spanish sailor,” said I.
“The very same. God preserve us! It’s that infernal chest! Look at Armstrong’s hand!”
He held up the mate’s right hand, and there was the screwdriver which he had wished to use the night before.
“He’s been at the chest, sir. He knew that I was on deck and you were asleep. He knelt down in front of it, and he pushed the lock back with that tool. Then something happened to him, and he cried out so that you heard him.”
“Allardyce,” I whispered, “what could have happened to him?”
The second mate put his hand upon my sleeve and drew me into his cabin.
“We can talk here, sir, and we don’t know who may be listening to us in there. What do you suppose is in that box, Captain Barclay?”
“I give you my word, Allardyce, that I have no idea.”
“Well, I can only find one theory which will fit all the facts. Look at the size of the box. Look at all the carving and metal-work which may conceal any number of holes. Look at the weight of it; it took four men to carry it. On top of that, remember that two men have tried to open it, and both have come to their end through it. Now, sir, what can it mean except one thing?”