"Do you think he's putting it on, mate?" said Dick, appealing to Matt.
"No, he's not putting it on. The man's really daft." Matt turned to Rigolette. "You say the boy and Jurgens were like Bangs, here?"
"Oui—yes," said the creole. "Zey run from ze house; now Proctair, he ees come back by ze roof. W'y he do zat w'en he could come by ze door? Zat ees a mystery."
"Aye, a black mystery!" cried Dick.
"Carl was certainly here," mused Matt; "the finding of his cap proves it. And it's almost equally clear that he was a prisoner. Something locoed him, as well as Bangs and Jurgens; and Carl, in some manner, got out of his ropes. Where is he now? That's the point. And the iron chest—was that all that was in it?" and Matt nodded toward the heap of sawdust.
At that moment the scrap of paper, which Jurgens had dropped, met his eyes. He picked it up.
"What is it, mate?" asked Dick, anxiously. "Does it shed any light?"
Matt read the paper aloud.
"Strike me lucky!" exclaimed Dick. "That head—it must have been in the box. Wasn't there anything else?"
Matt dropped to his knees excitedly and began running his fingers through the sawdust.