“Nearly two thousand five hundred pounds’ worth,” said my father.
“What a haul!” exclaimed the lieutenant, “and so compact and handy. Never mind, captain, hark at our guns talking to them. They’ll have to disgorge. But, I say, some one must have told them where to come.”
“I’m afraid so,” said my father.
“Who was likely to know?—this smuggling rascal that we have got in the French lugger?”
“Who is he? An Englishman?”
“No, sir, a Frenchman who speaks English pretty well. The officer on the revenue cutter knows him. A Captain Gualtière, I believe.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed.
“You know him then?” said the officer sharply.
“Yes,” said my father; “he picked up my son and two companions one day after their boat had been blown out to sea.”
“He seems to have picked up something else beside, sir,” cried the officer—“knowledge of where you kept your silver. And you may depend upon it his lugger has been playing leader to the French sloop, and showed the captain where to land. Two thousand five hundred pounds in bars of silver! We must have that back.”