A careful review of the position impressed upon us the necessity of continuing our search. We possessed certain documentary evidence which showed, first, that a treasure had been stored away; secondly, that it had been stored in a place of safety, with the Knuttons as guardians; thirdly, that the Knuttons had been installed by Bartholomew himself in the Manor Farm, the old house in close proximity. Therefore we could arrive at but one conclusion, namely, that the treasure was stored upon the premises now in our possession. If not, why had the Knuttons been established there? Richard Knutton, of the Port of Sandwich, who was Bartholomew’s trusted lieutenant, would surely be placed on guard in the vicinity of the secret hiding-place. Sea-dogs they all were, and clever ones too. Probably few had seen more hand-to-hand fighting and more fierce bloodshed than the seven signatories, and their prize money had undoubtedly amounted to a handsome sum.
Reilly was impatient and rather headstrong. He made lots of wild suggestions. If Purvis and his friends had hired burglars to search his uncle’s study, why should we not, by similar means, try and possess ourselves of that all-important document which the drunken Knutton had sold to our enemies? Which argument was, of course, logical, but it did not appeal to me. My own opinion was that if we acted firmly, with caution and patience, we should one day satisfactorily clear up the mystery. Still, our position was irksome, for we dared not to leave the place for long together, fearing that our enemies might be working against us in secret.
Through several days we continued our search, taking up the worm-eaten floor boards, but exposing nothing more interesting than rat runs; wrenching out the old oak panelling, and searching for any hollow-sounding places in the walls. Our investigation was certainly thorough, for we took room by room, methodically measuring, sounding, and making openings everywhere.
One morning the rural postman brought me a letter from Seal, explaining that the Thrush had at last gone into dry dock, where she would remain for three weeks at least to be scraped and patched, therefore he was coming down next day to help us. This was good news, for with three of us on guard we could each be allowed more liberty. So I went over to Uppingham again and purchased another camp bed and some cheap furniture, sufficient to make us up a sitting-room. That same night it arrived, and we then turned one of the smaller rooms on the ground floor into a smoking-room, with three cane chairs, a table, and a window-blind.
I met Seal at Rockingham Station on the following day.
“What ho, sonny!” the burly skipper cried, rolling his huge carcass from the train and slapping his great hand into mine. “My kit’s in the van there. Thought you hadn’t got a bed for me, so I brought my own and a few other things,” and at the same moment I saw, pitched out upon the platform, a sailor’s hold-all lashed with rope.
“Well, captain,” I said, after giving instructions to the railway porter to wheel the skipper’s luggage up to the Manor House, “and how are you?”
“Fit as a fiddle, doctor,” and his bronzed face broadened and beamed; “you cured that rheumatism of mine.” Then he halted and inhaled the air deeply. “Christmas!” he exclaimed; “this does a chap good, after too much sea. I can smell them flowers,” and he glanced at some growing in the station-master’s garden. “I never see flowers, you know, doctor.”
Together we crossed the bridge and entered the village. The bluff old fellow was dressed, as usual, in blue serge, with a big silver watch-chain, of cable pattern, across his waistcoat, and his nautical cap stuck slightly askew, ridiculously small for his enormous head.
“Seen anything more of them other swabs?” he asked, as he rolled along at my side.