The little man uttered almost a shriek, as he pounced upon a shagreen case lying upon the top of a folded coat that was deposited within the false-bottom revealed.
He staggered to his feet—thrust his treasure into Tuke’s hands.
“Take it!” he cried, absolutely dancing. “It’s found, by God!”
With the exclamation his face fell. The other had snapped open the box—a jeweller’s case, by every sign—and—it was empty. There was the depression in the green velvet for stone, trinket, what-not; but no stone was there, or anything but vacancy.
They turned, tapped, felt the casket all over; finally, they looked at one another dismayed.
“The stable,” groaned Tuke, “but the steed is gone.”
He dashed down the useless shell, and with one impulse they both fell on their knees before the exposed recess.
“Look!” whispered Sir David, in an awe-struck tone—“his coat—Cutwater’s—the same he robbed and murdered in!”
It would seem to be as he said. The historical garment—neatly folded and laid away—was of blue silk, cut in a bygone fashion, and its edges were richly crusted with filigree of tarnished silver lace. Tuke seized it out, and dangled it up to view.
“’Twould be a treasure in itself to some,” he said. “I wonder will the spirit of the bloody cutpurse resent having its own pockets picked?”