“I 'll be back with you within an hour,” said Jack. “My head is full of this, and I 'll tell you why when I return.”
And they parted.
Before Cutbill could believe it possible, Jack, flushed and heated, re-entered the room. He had run at top-speed, found what he sought for, and came back in intense eagerness to declare the result.
“You 've lost no time, Jack; nor have I, either. I took up the flags under the altar-steps, and came upon this oak box. I suppose it was sacrilege, but I carried it off here to examine at our leisure.”
“Look here,” cried Jack, “look at this scrap of paper. It was given to me at the galleys at Ischia by the fellow I was chained to. Read these names: Giacomo Lami,—whose daughter was Enrichetta,—I was to trace him out, and communicate, if I could, with this other man, Tonino Baldassare or Pracontal,—he was called by both names. Bolton of Naples could trace him.”
A long low whistle was Cutbill's only reply as he took the paper and studied it long and attentively.
“Why, this is the whole story,” cried he at last. “This old galley-slave is the real claimant, and Pracontal has no right, while Niccolo, or whatever his name be, lives. This may turn out glorious news for your brother, but I 'm not lawyer enough to say whether it may not be the Crown that will benefit, if his estates be confiscated for felony.”
“I don't think that this was the sort of service Old Nick asked me to render him when we parted,” said Jack, dryly.
“Probably not. He only asked you to help his son to take away your brother's estate.”
“Old Nick knew nothing about whose brother I was. He trusted me to do him a service, and I told him I would.”