Fenwick turned to the sailor, and said, pointing to the chest against which Joe Grimrood still leaned, ‘Uncord that box. And if,’ he added—‘if that man moves or utters a word, bind him down hands and feet with the rope. Do you understand?’
‘Ay, ay, sir,’ cried the sailor, with a grin on his honest-looking face. With all the dexterity of a practised ‘tar,’ the sailor removed the cord from the chest; then he glanced at the detective for further instructions.
‘Open it!’ cried Fenwick.
At these words, Joe Grimrood, who sat with his back against the iron pillar and his arms crossed defiantly, showed signs of rebellion in his small glittering eyes. But a glance from Fenwick quelled him.
When the chest was opened, a quantity of old clothes was discovered. ‘Make a careful search,’ said the detective. ‘If you find nothing more valuable than old clothes in that box, I shall be greatly surprised.’
Something far more valuable, sure enough, soon came to light. One after another the sailor brought out fat little bags, which, being shaken, gave forth a pleasant ring not unlike the chink of gold.
Fenwick presently, after opening one of these bags, held it up before Joe Grimrood’s eyes, tauntingly. ‘You’re a nice emigrant, ain’t you? Why, a man of your wealth ought to be a first-class passenger, not a steerage. How did you manage to accumulate such a heap of gold?’
Joe Grimrood gave another growl, and replied: ‘Let me alone. I’m an honest workman. Mr Tiltcroft there will tell you if I’m not; asking his pardon.’
‘That’s no answer. How do you come by all this gold?’
‘By the sweat of my brow,’ answered the man, with the perspiration rolling down his face. ‘So help me. By the sweat of my brow.’