favour, for
(between you and me) I've seen Portugal money in his possession."

So, indeed, had I. But Captain Coffin himself cut short the talk at
this point by appearing and announcing from the back doorstep that he
had a treat for me if I would come inside.

The treat consisted in a dish of tea--a luxury in those times, rarely
afforded even at Minden Cottage--and a pot of guava-jelly, with
Cornish cream and a loaf of white, wheaten bread. Such bread, I need
scarcely say, with wheat at 140 shillings a quarter, or thereabouts,
never graced the table of Copenhagen Academy. But the dulcet,
peculiar taste of guava-jelly is what I associate in memory with that
delectable meal; and to this day I cannot taste the flavour of guava
but I find myself back in Captain Coffin's sitting-room, cutting a
third slice from the wheaten loaf, with the corals and shells of
mother-of-pearl winking at me from among the china on the dresser,
and Captain Coffin seated opposite, with the silver rings in his
ears, and his eyes very white in the dusk and distinct within their
inflamed rims.

"Nothing like tea," he was saying--"nothing like tea to pull a man
round from the drink and cock him back like a trigger."

His right hand was at his breast as he spoke. It came out swiftly,
as upon a sudden impulse. His left hand closed upon it and partly
covered it for a moment; then the two hands spread apart and
disclosed an oilskin case.

"Brooks!" he whispered hoarsely. "Brooks, look at this!"

His fingers plucked at the oilskin wrapper, uncovered it, unfolded an
inner parcel of parchment, and, trembling, spread it out on the
table.

I leaned closer, and I saw a chart of the Island of Mortallone in the
Bay of Honduras dated MDCCLXXVII. From the scale on the chart, the
island was some eight to ten miles long in the north-south direction,
and perhaps eight miles broad at the widest point. At the north end
of the island, around a promontory called Gable Point, there were
five small islands called The Keys. To the south was a wide inlet
with a ship seemingly in the act of sailing towards it.
The eastward edge of this inlet was labelled Cape Fea and just around
from this, in an easterly direction wa a small cove called Try-Again
Inlet. In the sea to the west of the island was drawn a mythical
sea-monster.

Twice, while I leaned across and stared at it, Captain Coffin's
fingers all but closed over the parchment to hide it from me.
The a