his roses; and
then, remembering his determination, unmoored his boat and prepared
to satisfy his doubts.

The tide was low--so low that on the further side of the old wreck
his paddles plunged once or twice into mud. Nor was it easy to swing
himself on board; but a rusty chain helped him, and after one or two
failures he stood upon deck.

All was desolation. He peered down into the hold, where the water
lay deep and still; crawled forward, and peeped through a shattered
deadlight into the forecastle. The water was here, too, though it
had drained somewhat, owing to the depression amidships; but nothing
to explain the mystery.

Mr. Fogo crept aft with better hopes of success, gained the poop, and
peered down the companion. The light was too dim to reveal anything.
Nothing daunted, he crawled down the ladder and into the captain's
cabin.

The first thing to catch his eye was an empty packing-case, with a
heap of shavings and cotton-wool beside it. On the side of the case
was printed in blue letters--"_ Wapshott and Sons. Chicago. Patent
Compressed Tea. With Care_." Mr. Fogo poked his nose inside it.
A faint smell of tea still lingered about the wood.

Next he inspected the cupboards. Some were open and all unlocked.
He went over them all. At the end he found himself the richer by--

A watch-glass.
Three brass buttons (one bearing the initials P. J., and all
coated with verdigris).
A pair of nut-crackers.
Several leaves of a devotional work entitled "Where shall I be
To-morrow? or, Thoughts for Mariners."
A key.
An oily rag.
The cap of a telescope.
An empty bottle, labelled, and bearing in faded ink: "Poison.
For Dick Collins, when his leg is bad."

On the whole this was not encouraging. Mr. Fogo was turning to
abandon the search, when something upon the cabin-floor caught his
eye.

He stooped and picked it up. It was a lady's glove.

Mr. Fogo turned it over in his hand. It was a dainty six-buttoned
glove, of a light tan colour, and showed scarcely a trace of wear.

"This is very odd," muttered he; "I can hardly fancy a smuggler
wearing this, still less a ghost."

With his thoughts still running on the woman he had seen upon the
deck, he advanced to the packing-case again, and was beginning
absently to kick aside the heap of shavings and cotton-wool, when his
foot encountered some hard object. He bent down and drew it forth.

It wa