It seemed to be so, indeed, for in it were no fewer than seven sovereigns.
‘That’s eighteen in all,’ said Broughton, in an awed tone, as he slipped them into his pocket. ‘If the whole cask’s full of them it must be worth thousands and thousands of pounds.’
They stood gazing at the prosaic looking barrel, outwardly remarkable only in its strong design and good finish, marvelling if beneath that commonplace exterior there was indeed hidden what to them seemed a fortune. Then Harkness crouched down and looked into the cask through the hole he had made. Hardly had he done so when he sprang back with a sudden oath.
‘Look in there, Mr. Broughton!’ he cried in a suppressed tone. ‘Look in there!’
Broughton stooped in turn and peered in. Then he also recoiled, for there, sticking up out of the sawdust, were the fingers of a hand.
‘This is terrible,’ he whispered, convinced at last they were in the presence of tragedy, and then he could have kicked himself for being such a fool.
‘Why, it’s only a statue,’ he cried.
‘Statue?’ replied Harkness sharply. ‘Statue? That ain’t no statue. That’s part of a dead body, that is. And don’t you make no mistake.’
‘It’s too dark to see properly. Get a light, will you, till we make sure.’
When the foreman had procured a hand-lamp Broughton looked in again and speedily saw that his first impression was correct. The fingers were undoubtedly those of a woman’s hand, small, pointed, delicate, and bearing rings which glinted in the light.