“Young Dick gave it to me before ’e went a soldierin’. His father had given it to him, telling him to be sure and not part with it. So he gave it to me for fear he might lose it. It had a yellow seal a-hanging to it, and a whole lot o’ scrawly signatures. I showed it to lots of people, but nobody could make head nor tail of it.”
“And you sold it—the night before last?” I cried, in utter dismay.
“What was the good o’ keepin’ it? The stranger offered me half a sovereign for it, and I wasn’t the one to refuse that for a bit o’ dirty old parchment what nobody could read.”
CHAPTER XI
FORESTALLED
Mere words fail to express my chagrin. Job Seal could perhaps have uttered remarks sufficiently pointed and appropriate, but for myself I could only reflect that this unknown man who called himself Mr. Purvis, of London, had forestalled me.
The parchment he had purchased of this drink-sodden old yokel might, for aught I knew, give a clue to the spot of which I was in search. We had more than a thousand golden guineas locked up safely in the bank in London, but both Seal, Mr. Staffurth, and myself felt certain that the great bulk of the treasure still remained undiscovered.
But what was the explanation of these inquiries by the mysterious Purvis? He evidently knew that the family of Knutton had been appointed hereditary guardians of the Italian’s hoard, and he, like myself, was investigating the possibility of securing it.
I asked the old labourer, Ben Knutton, to describe the parchment he had sold, but owing to the landlady’s sharp and well-meant remonstrance he was not communicative.
“It was all stained and faded so that you could hardly see there was any writin’ on it at all,” he said vaguely.
“But there was a seal on it. What was it like?”