Now he was considering the best means of examination. A shaft of daylight came down through the trap above him and he had his lantern. But the double resource left the place ill-lit and difficult. After awhile he found an iron hook suspended from the deck above, and promptly availed himself of it. He hung his lantern thereon and instantly appreciated the added illumination so gained. He moved slowly amongst the litter. Right at his feet lay two chests of stout make. They were different from the rest scattered about. They were iron-bound and of dark, heavy wood. Their iron bonds had been cut and the lids thrown back, and they were quite empty. He bent down over these and examined the lids closely. There was no stencilling upon them to give any clue to their source. There was no address of any sort.
He left them, passing on to the rest in deliberate and careful succession. He had made up his mind that nothing should remain unexamined. For, he argued, here were the ship’s stores, and these stores might give him some clue as to whence they came. An address. A purveyor’s business name. Anything and everything of such a nature might surely help materially in solving the mystery that so profoundly intrigued him.
For a while his search was unproductive of information, although, in another direction it was not without interest. Each chest he had discovered had had all markings carefully erased with a scraper. Why?
It was a curious discovery. It was deeply significant. To McLagan’s acute mind there was but a single answer. The whole thing suggested secrecy. Again why? After turning over the last chest he stood up and gazed about him, and, in the stuffy heat of the place, he passed a hand across his sweating forehead. But his gesture was in reality one of perplexity and had no relation to the heat. Clearly there was only one thing to be done. After he had explored the sealed tanks he must examine the contents of those cases that still remained full. They might contain canned fruit or milk. Anyway, something which would clearly tell him its source.
Yes. He would first unseal those tanks, and essay the negotiation of those narrow manholes. Then——
He had started to cross over to the nearest tank when his eyes chanced upon a portion of an old packing case lying in an obscure corner. There was a square of white upon it. In the doubtful light he could not be certain what the latter was. But it looked like the thing for which he had been so long searching. It looked like an address ticket. He stooped and picked it up.
It was the thing he hoped. But—— In his profound amazement he found himself muttering the address upon it aloud.
“Capt. Julian Caspar, Sailing Ship, Imperial of Bristol, Perth, Western Australia.”
At the bottom of the address card was the name of a firm of wine merchants in “Perth, W.A.,” and at the top of it, in block lettering, was the usual “With Care.”