“Is that enough?” he drawled, “or do you want to look at this?” and he turned his head to reveal his scarred right temple.
“Then you admit that you are Vasa?”
“Wal,” drawled the captain again, “that's one of my names, I guess, though I haven't used it since I traded that blamed mummy in Paris, thirty years ago. There's nothing like owning up.”
“Are you not Swedish?” asked Lucy timidly.
“I am a citizen of the world, I guess,” replied Hervey with great politeness for him, “and America suits me for headquarters as well as any other nation. I might be Swedish or Danish or a Dago for choice. Vasa may be my name, or Hervey, or anything you like. But I guess I'm a man all through.”
“And a thief!” cried Don Pedro, who had resumed his seat, but was keeping quiet with difficulty.
“Not of those emeralds,” rejoined the skipper coolly: “Lord, to think of the chance I missed! Thirty years ago I could have looted them, and again the other day. But I never knew—I never knew,” cried Hervey regretfully, with his vividly blue eyes on the mummy. “I could jes' kick myself, gentlemen, when I think of the miss.”
“Then you didn't steal the manuscript along with the emeralds?”
“Wal, I did,” cried Hervey, turning to Archie, who had spoken, “but it was in a furren lingo, to which I didn't catch on. If I'd known I'd have learned about those blamed emeralds.”
“What did you do with the copy of the manuscript you stole?” asked Don Pedro sharply. “I know there was a copy, as my father told me so. I have the original myself, but the transcript—and not a translation, as I fancied—appeared in Sir Frank Random's room to-day, hidden behind some books.”