Sellers, without speaking, stared at the chart before him.
Rum Cay was shown, and then, southwest of Rum Cay, a line of reef marked “Lone Reef,” and in red ink, connected to the reef by a red line, the name “Nombre de Dios” could be made out, the “Dios” very indistinct at the frayed edge of the paper. In the top right hand corner the latitude and longitude were written, but so faintly that it would have required close study in a strong light to make the figures out.
Nobody bothered about them. Lone Reef was on all the charts, and the name was enough.
“I’ve been by there,” said Sellers at last, “and I’ve never seen signs of a wreck.”
“You wouldn’t,” said Satan. “She lies flush with the coral in a crik between two arms of reef, not a stump of a mast on her. The hull of that reef must have raised itself since she was sunk, for the water in the crik doesn’t cover her at high tide and low tides it’s pretty near empty. But she’s been under right enough, years ago, for the decks are coraled over, hatches and all, and the stuff’s turned to iron cement with the sun and weather. We’ve got to dynamite her open.”
“Sure,” said Sellers; then, after a moment’s pause, “It’ll be a big job, if it’s what you say. I had it in my mind that she was a diving job in shallow water—never thought of the blasted coral.”
Carquinez said nothing. He withdrew to his seat at the end of the table and lit another cigarette. To Ratcliffe the silence of Carquinez approached the weird. The way Sellers, without consulting him, did all the talking seemed uncanny as though the pair were telepathic.
One thing certain was gradually being borne in upon him,—they were a most atrocious pair of rogues, and the marvel to him was the simplicity of Satan in having any dealings at all with them. They would surely swindle him, take what precautions he might. They would never give him a third share of any treasure. They would, most likely, murder him before he could split on them, if treasure were found. Of this Ratcliffe felt certain. He tried to telegraph a warning across the table, but Satan seemed blind to winks and frowns.
“Well, it’s there,” said Satan, “near a foot thick. You’ve got to drill it, and stick dynamite cartridges in the drill-holes and fire them. Got any dynamite aboard?”
“Not an ounce.”