“I suppose you’ve no idea as to how the crate might have got there?”
“Not the slightest. I have been wondering that ever since I learned what was in it. What do you think?”
“I don’t know, sir, unless it has been dropped off a steamer or been washed into the Inlet from some wreck. We’ll get it to the station and examine it, and maybe we shall find where it came from. If you wait here a second I’ll get hold of Manners.”
They had reached the coastguard’s house and the sergeant ran up to the door. In a few seconds he returned with a stout, elderly man who gave Mr. Morgan a civil good evening.
“It’s your job, of course, Tom,” the sergeant was saying, “but it’ll be ours so soon that we may as well go down together. Perhaps, sir, you’ll tell Manners about how you found the crate and brought it in?”
By the time Mr. Morgan had finished his story for the second time they had reached the boat slip. The sergeant and Manners peeped into the crate in turn.
“Yes, sir, it’s just what you said,” the former remarked. “It’s a man, by the look of him, and he’s been dead some time. I think we’ll have the whole affair up to the station before we open any more of it. What do you say, Tom?”
“Right you are, Sergeant, I’ll go with you. I shall ’ave to put in a report about the thing, but I can get my information at the station as well as ’ere. You’ll be coming along, Mr. Morgan?”
“If you please, sir,” the sergeant interjected. “I have to get a statement from you, too.”
“Of course I’ll go,” Mr. Morgan assured them. “I’ll see the thing through now.”