[Illustration: cover art]

THE TREASURE OF THE
"SAN PHILIPO"

[Illustration: SUDDENLY THE AIR WAS FILLED WITH THE WILD YELLS OF THE SAVAGES.]

THE TREASURE OF
THE "SAN PHILIPO"

BY

PERCY F. WESTERMAN

AUTHOR OF
"A LAD OF GRIT," ETC., ETC

LONDON
"THE BOY'S OWN PAPER" OFFICE
4 BOUVERIE STREET, E.C.4

CONTENTS

THE TREASURE OF THE
"SAN PHILIPO"

Chapter I

THE LOG OF THE PRIVATEER "ANNE"

"REGGIE, my boy, I have a letter from Uncle Herbert."

"What does he say? Has he heard good news about the hidden treasure?

"Yes; but wait till after breakfast and you can read it."

I almost danced with delight at the information, vague as it appeared, for during the last three months news of my uncle's progress in search of the mysterious treasure that was to restore the fortunes of the family had been disappointingly scarce; and, now that there were indications of a flowing tide in our affairs, it was hard to realize that success might be within measurable distance.

My story opens in the year 190—, when I was sixteen years of age, and during the few years that have since elapsed I may truthfully say, without boasting, that few boys have ever experienced a greater amount of peril and adventure than has fallen to my lot in the search for the "San Philipo" treasure.

My name is Reginald Trevena, and I live at Polruan, in a house that has been in the possession of our family for centuries; for the Trevenas are reckoned amongst the oldest stock in all Cornwall. Go back to the time of the Spanish Armada; or the stirring wars of the Great Rebellion, when Cornwall was the scene of many a sanguinary conflict between Cavalier and Roundhead; or the equally exciting period of the Napoleonic Wars; search the contemporary records of those days, and I'll warrant you'll find a Trevena plays a conspicuous and honourable part.

We are of an old seafaring family, and our house contains many mementoes of our ancestors' prowess. For instance, there is the silver-mounted sword presented to my great-grandfather, Jasper Trevena, in recognition of his gallant and successful defence of the Falmouth packet "Restormel Castle" against a French privateer of twice its size; and another relic is the silver-braided cocked hat worn by an ancestor, Humphrey Trevena, at the battle of Vigo Bay in 1702.

It is this Humphrey Trevena who is morally responsible for our search for the "San Philipo" treasure. Briefly, the facts of the case are these. Humphrey was apparently a rough sea-dog who tempered his fierce roving spirit with a peculiar spice of superstition, which, at that period, was rampant in Cornwall. In fact, even at the present day, dread of the supernatural has a strong hold upon the poorer classes of the Duchy, although modern education has done much to banish the firm belief in witchcraft that our forefathers held.

But to return to Humphrey Trevena. From papers in our possession it appears that in 170—, this sturdy sea-captain, who commanded the privateer "Anne," of thirty guns, received orders from Commodore Sir Charles Wager to make an independent cruise, in company with the "Leopard," of twenty-four guns, to intercept a Spanish treasure-ship, the "San Philipo," which was bound from Callao for Cadiz. The Spaniard had a rich cargo, including fifteen chests of pieces-of-eight, twenty sows of silver, and gold plate, the total value being equivalent to £500,000 of our money.

The "San Philipo" arrived at Coquimbo in the month of May of that year, and left on the following June 1. The "Anne" and her consort passed through the Straits of Magellan early in the latter month, but were shortly afterwards overtaken by a furious gale off the Madre de Dios Archipelago, during which the two vessels lost touch with one another. The "Leopard" alone rejoined Sir Charles Wager, and nothing more was seen of the "Anne." Neither did the "San Philipo" reach Cadiz. As far as information could be obtained from the Admiralty, the history of the "Anne" comes to an abrupt termination; but we have in our possession documents which prove conclusively, that Captain Humphrey Trevena did achieve his purpose and intercept the "San Philipo," contrary to popular belief.

The log of the "Anne" is before me as I write; scores of musty pages covered with a crabbed handwriting, made all the more puzzling by reason of the superfluity of flourishes that characterized the literary style of the eighteenth century.

Though too lengthy and too complicated to quote in detail, some portions leave little doubt as to what befell the "San Philipo." For instance, "perceived the Spaniard well-down on our weather-bow. She altered her course and stood N.W., we in hot pursuit." For nearly three weeks this chase continued, during which time the "Anne," in spite of her inferior size and armament, had driven the "San Philipo" into the then practically unknown water of the Pacific.

Although to Cook, some seventy years later, belongs the honour of having made this part of the globe really known to Europeans, there are proofs that the early Spanish voyagers had navigated these waters, the first of them being Juan Gaetano, who, in 1542, made the first voyage of discovery, from New Spain to the coast of Asia. Therefore, I take it, the captain, of the "San Philipo," unable to regain the ports of the west coast of South America, tried to shake off pursuit amongst the numerous coral reefs and islands of the Pacific Ocean.

However, my ancestor goes on to relate how he effected the capture of the "San Philipo" after a stubborn resistance. The "Anne" and her prize made for a lagoon in order to refit; but the reef does not afford the hoped-for protection, for, a gale springing up, the treasure-ship sinks with its precious cargo still on board, while the "Anne," driven south-east by a succession of tempests, is eventually wrecked upon the desolate Chloe Islands, within a few miles of the spot where she first sighted the "San Philipo."

Of the entire crew only Humphrey Trevena and two seamen reach the shore alive, and, after terrible privations, are rescued by a Spanish ship, and kept in captivity, till the Treaty of Utrecht in 1715 caused universal peace.

Now the mystery deepens. My ancestor describes the position, of the wrecked treasure-ship in detail, save that he omits an all-important item. "The island is not more than three leagues in circumference, and is of irregular form. To the south-east is a hill of about 700 feet in height, its outline likened to a cat's head with its ears cocked upright. The outer reef extends roughly a mile from the sandy shore, the opening being visible when two miles from land. The 'San Philipo' lies with her topmasts showing above water (though 'tis certain they be not there now), but fifty fathoms from the western extremity of the entrance, and from it the two headlands on the west side of the island appear in line, and the highest part—i.e. that which I have likened to a cat's ear—is directly above the mouth of a vast cave."

This description would doubtless do equally well for a thousand islands in the Pacific; but here the all-important item is missing—the actual latitude and longitude.

That Humphrey Trevena fully intended to make an effort to regain the hidden treasure there can be no possible doubt. Through an excess of caution he prepared an elaborate cipher, giving the exact latitude and longitude, and this he invariably carried about his person in a watertight metal case; but, unfortunately, he met his death through a fall over the cliffs near the Gribben, and when his body was washed ashore the cipher was found on him.

In the natural sequence of events the secret should have come into the possession of his son Gilbert, but, though the latter had the cipher, neither the key nor the log could be found, though search was made high and low, and the secret remained a secret. Vague rumours of the existence of the "San Philipo" treasure floated about, but the majority of Gilbert's friends regarded the whole business as a myth, and the interest in the mystery gradually died out.

The box, with its undecipherable contents, still remained as a sort of heirloom—for, with true Cornish superstition, the bygone members of the Trevena family kept particular guard over the relic of the redoubtable Humphrey—until the year 1850, when my father's uncle, Ross Trevena, having suffered in the general ruin that overtook Falmouth when steamships displaced the famous sailing packets of that port, left Polruan and settled in the neighbourhood of Pernambuco, in Brazil. Here he successfully engaged in coffee-planting, but at length he dropped out of all communication with his relatives in Cornwall, and on his death all trace of Humphrey's cipher were lost, and the faint interest in the "San Philipo" treasure had apparently flickered out.

But, by a pure accident, a new light was shed upon the mystery, and a clue furnished which led to my Uncle Herbert's hurried visit to Pernambuco. Before relating, however, the strange circumstances of the recovery of the log of the "Anne," I must give some particulars of the present actors in this stirring drama.

My father, Howard Trevena, is a typical Cornishman. Tall, broad-shouldered, and possessing an unusual amount of strength, he has a reputation in this part of the Duchy for manliness, good nature, and a love of outdoor recreation, his skill as a yachtsman being well known all along this dangerous coast betwixt the Lizard and Portland Bill.

To me he appeared more in the light of a companion than that of a parent, for, from my earliest recollections, I invariably accompanied him, whether it were, as frequently happened, on a cruise in our ten-ton cutter "Spray." or on a camping tour along the rock-bound coast of North Cornwall, or a cycling tour through other counties of our own country, or even on a ramble afoot amongst the magnificent hills surrounding our home. Although I fully recognize the respect due to my father, I am proud of the complete confidence that exists between us, for he has often expressed the opinion that a parent can make no greater mistake than to treat his sons as children when they are fast verging upon manhood.

My mother died when I was but an infant, so that event, in a measure, accounts for the close companionship between my father and me. And with us, till within a few months ago, lived my Uncle Herbert. He resembled my father in several ways; the swarthy complexion, the close-cut crisp hair, the firm jaw, almost approaching what might be described as "heavy," the steel-blue eyes—all denoted the strain of the Trevenas.

Our house, the ancestral home for centuries past, stands a short distance from the road from Polruan to Lanteglos, on a lofty hill overlooking Fowey Harbour. It is a long rambling building of Cornish granite, with the usual stone roof, the mullioned windows being almost hidden in summer by a wealth of crimson roses. The garden, of considerable extent, terminates at the edge of a steep declivity, the foot of which is washed by the tidal waters of the harbour. In one corner of the garden stood a wooden summer-house, built, so the tale goes, from the timbers of an old Dutch frigate, which was captured and brought into Fowey Harbour during the sanguinary sea-fights of Cromwellian times. In front of this summer-house was erected a white flag-staff; with crosstrees, gaff, topmast, shrouds, and halliards complete, from which flew the burgee and blue ensign of the yacht club to which my father belonged.

You will notice that I used the word "stood" when describing the summer-house, for it was owing to the fact that the structure ceased to be that we came into possession of the log, of the illfated "Anne."

It happened thus: Six months previously, (it was the 5th of November, as a matter of fact) there was a bonfire and fireworks display in our village, and, alarmed by the noise, an enormous black cat took refuge in its terror in our summerhouse. The animal's owner, Mrs. Penibar, a portly old dame, enlisted our services in its recapture, and, armed with lanterns, my father, Uncle Herbert, and I made for its hiding-place.

Right across the summer-house, on a level with the eaves, ran a massive beam, seemingly out of all proportion to the rest of the woodwork, and resting on this beam were several short spars, coils of rope, and other gear belonging to our boat.

Here the cat had taken up its position, and, with arched back and bristling fur, defied all attempts at pacification, spitting and growling in its fright. Neither my father nor my uncle had the inclination to tackle the brute, so the owner, using extraordinary and ridiculous terms of endearment, placed a short ladder, against the beam, and ponderously began the ascent.

Even its mistress's blandishments were futile, for the cat, backing along the beam, still growled defiance. So Mrs. Penibar, mounting to the fourth rung from the top, leaned sideways along the beam and attempted to seize her pet.

Suddenly there was an appalling crash, a shriek, and, amid a shower of dust and plaster, the old lady fell heavily to the ground, and by the feeble glimmer of our lantern we saw that the massive beam had broken as cleanly as if shorn by an axe.

Fortunately there were no bones broken, and, by dint of our united efforts, we managed to extricate the frightened old lady and carry her to her house.

Next morning I arose early and went to examine the debris of the summer-house. Only the walls remained; the beam, deceptive in its apparent solidity, had been hollowed out, and, by natural decay, had gradually become rotten, till the unusual weight of Mrs. Penibar's portly frame had caused it to break, bringing down the roof with it.

All at once my quick eye detected some peculiar object that was half hidden in the heap of rubbish, and, drawing it out, I discovered that it was an old book, bound in rough leather, that was covered in mildew.

Without waiting to examine its contents I hastened back to the house, meeting my father and Uncle Herbert on the threshold as they were about to leave for their usual morning swim—a practice they followed winter and summer alike.

"My word, Reggie! what have you got there?" inquired my father, taking the book out of my hands. For a few moments he looked at its contents in silence, turning over a few musty pages; then, so suddenly that it quite astonished me, he slapped my uncle vigorously on the back, exclaiming, "My word, Herbert, it is the long-lost log of the 'Anne'!"

That day, I remember, the morning swim did not take place, and I was allowed to remain away from the Grammar School at Fowey, and the whole morning was spent in deciphering Humphrey Trevena's faded handwriting, and by night we were in possession of the salient facts concerning the "San Philipo" treasure, though the cipher, giving the latitude and longitude of the island, was alone wanting to complete the information necessary for the recovery.

Good news, like bad, seldom comes alone, and our case was no exception, for next morning my father received a communication asking him to call upon Rook and Pay, a well-known firm of solicitors in Plymouth. On paying the requested visit he learned, to his unbounded astonishment, that his cousin, Ross Trevena's only son, had died childless at Pernambuco, and that a reputable firm of Brazilian lawyers had written to the Plymouth firm, requesting that they should, if possible, find the nearest legal representative of Ross's son.

"We are the sole surviving descendants of old Humphrey Trevena now," I heard my father remark to his brother, on his return from Plymouth, "and, if it is humanly possible, I mean to have a shot at that treasure. Old Rook hinted pretty plainly that there are several heirloom, and the value of the estate, though not abnormal, is worth having. I think the best thing to be done is for you to run over to Pernambuco and get the Brazilian lawyers, Sarmientos, to wind up the estate as quickly as possible. I have little doubt but that you will be able to lay your hands on Humphrey's cipher, for Ross is certain never to have left the metal box out of his possession, and if his son was a chip of the old block, as in all probability is the case, he will have done likewise."

These were the circumstances under which my uncle set out for Brazil, and after an interval of three months, my father informed me, as I have previously mentioned, "Reggie, my boy, I have heard from Uncle Herbert."

Chapter II

THE WRECK

IT was not a long letter that Uncle Herbert wrote; but, on the other hand, it was to the point—

DEAR HOWARD,—

At last I have had this affair settled, and by the time you receive this I hope to be on my way home.

Old Humphrey's cipher, together with several other interesting old documents, is now in my possession, but I am afraid that we are not out of the wood yet, as the cipher requires a lot of puzzling out.

Chappell, an English mining engineer out here, who has done me good service as an interpreter, tells me that all sorts of vague rumours are flying about regarding my presence in Pernambuco, and advises me to take great care both of myself and the papers while I am here. I wonder why?

However, there's no need to write more, as I hope to be back again in dear old Polruan ere long. I've had a draft sent on to the Devon and Cornwall Bank, representing the cash part of the business, as I think it's safer.

Love to Reggie, and remembrances to any friends you run across.

HERBERT.

With Humphrey Trevena's cipher, as well as the long-lost log, in our possession, the outlook certainly seemed more hopeful, and both my father and I looked eagerly forward to my uncle's return. "Just like him, not to say by what boat he's coming," grumbled my father good-naturedly. "I suppose he'll turn up like the proverbial bad ha'penny."

A few days after the receipt of my uncle's letter, I went for a ramble along the cliffs towards Polperro. It was about seven in the evening when I started. All day a thick white mist had hung over the sea, but just before I set out on my walk the mist disappeared with remarkable suddenness, and a strong southerly wind began to send the heavy rollers thundering against the cliffs. As twilight deepened into night, I could see the double half-minute flash of the Eddystone, till a cloudbank obscured the friendly light.

"We're in for a dirty night," I remarked to myself in nautical parlance, and the dark-brown sails of the fishing-boats, showing dimly against the white-crested waves as they ran for shelter, supported my supposition. Before I reached home the storm was at its height, the wind howling over our chimney-pots in spite of the comparatively sheltered position of the house.

"Your Uncle Herbert will be having a lively time of it, if he is anywhere near the Channel," remarked my father, while we were at supper.

"Yes; but it doesn't matter so much on a liner," I replied. "It's the fishing-boats and small coasters that suffer as a rule in these gales."

"That's true; so long as the navigation lights are visible, steamers have little to fear. But, my word! Crosbie was bringing his ten-tonner round from Falmouth to-day. I wonder how he got on. I suppose you didn't notice her in the harbour as you came across?"

"You mean the 'Dorothy'? No, she wasn't on her moorings at five o'clock."

"It's too late to make inquiries at the club," replied my father, consulting his watch. "But I think I'll stroll up to the coastguard station and ask if she has been seen. Put on your oilskins, Reggie, and come too—that is, if you don't mind the rain."

Together we toiled up the steep path that led up to the coastguard look-out hut, and every step towards the hill brought us more exposed to the howling wind and the biting rain, till we were glad to gain the shelter of a rough cairn that served as a wind-screen.

Out of the darkness loomed an object that resolved itself into the coastguard on duty, who, clad in oileys and sou'-wester, kept faithful watch and ward on this exposed and bleak position.

"Good evening, McCallum."

"Good evening, sir; it blows a bit fresh to-night."

"Anything startling?"

"Not so far as I knows of, sir; all the boats 'ave come in."

"That's something to be thankful for," remarked my father. "But has anything been seen or heard of Mr. Crosbie's 'Dorothy'? I believe she is making a passage from Falmouth to-day."

"Mr. Crosbie ain't no mug at the game," replied the man. "Strikes me he's either put back or run into Mevagissey."

"I hope so, too," rejoined my father; and the conversation, which had been conducted by sheer strength of lungs, owing to the howling of the wind, ceased, and we relapsed into complete silence.

From our position we could see both within and without the harbour; and what a contrast! Within the harbour, though the waves caused a nasty "lop," the twinkling lights of Fowey, and the oscillating anchor-lamps of scores of weather-bound vessels in the Pool, caused quite a glare in the dark, rain-laden sky; while seaward, as far as the mirk allowed one to see, was one confused tumble of white-crested waves, which, with a noise that was heard above the singing of the wind, hurled themselves against the rockbound cliffs, sending up columns of white spray, that burst in hissing showers over our shelter, 200 feet above the sea. Not the faintest glimmer of a ship's light was visible, and only the blinking eye of St. Catherine's gave out its warning red flash to break the awful desolation of the raging waves.

"Bitterly cold for May," shouted my father into my ear. "We are doing no good by stopping here."

"Good-night, McCallum," he added, turning towards the coastguardsman; but at that moment a pale blue light flashed upwards in the darkness.

Instantly the look-out man became the personification of alertness. With his night-glass bearing in the direction of the light he waited till the signal was repeated; then, doubling across the open ground between us and the signal-hut, he proceeded to "ring up" the rest of the detachment.

"A vessel in distress!" exclaimed my father; and, following the coastguardsman, we entered the hut to gain further information.

"There's a ship ashore on the Cannis. Message just through from the Gribben. Mevagissey and Polkerris lifeboats called out, and our men to patrol the cliffs between Point Neptune and Pridmouth," reported the man with the abruptness of years of discipline. "If you wants to see anything of the business, sir, our chaps 'll put you across, for 'tain't likely there'll be any watermen about this sort of night."

"We may as well make a night of it, Reggie," remarked my father, "though I am afraid we cannot be of much practical use. Run home as hard as you can, and bring as many biscuits as you can stow in your pockets, and rejoin me at the ferry. We may be hungry before morning."

I did as I was bid, and five minutes later we were crossing the harbour in the stern-sheets of a Service gig, the boat plunging violently in the short, steep seas.

On landing at White House steps (for, owing to the flood tide, it was impossible to make Ready Money Cove), we found that the news of the catastrophe had already spread, and crowds of people were hurrying along the road leading to the Gribben. Staggering against the furious gusts, we crossed the head of the Cove, finding temporary shelter in the wooded slopes of Point Neptune; but, on gaining the high ground at the back of St. Catherine's lighthouse, we were in full view of the sea, only a low fence of wire netting separating the rough path from the edge of the cliffs, against which the waves tumbled a hundred feet below.

It must have been close on two o'clock when we reached the base of the Gribben day-mark, around which were gathered about two hundred persons—fishermen, coastguards, and civilians—all of whom were looking intently seaward towards the Cannis, a half-submerged rock lying a quarter of a mile from shore.

There was nothing to be seen, for the darkness was too intense, while the signals of distress had long since been discontinued—the absence of which gave rise to the most despondent conjectures.

"'Tain't no good waitin' 'ere," grumbled one of the onlookers, a pensioned coastguardsman. "She's broke up hours ago."

"Supposin' some of they chaps comes ashore?"

"What can us do for the likes o' they?" replied the first speaker contemptuously. "Why, with this tide a-makin' to the west'ard, they'll all be corpses long afore they reaches shore. Even if they don't, there's the rocks——" and with a shrug of the shoulders that conveyed a significant meaning, the sentence remained unfinished.

Slowly the day dawned, but the fury of the gale did not abate, although the wind shifted more to the south-west. The old coastguardsman was right: the ship had "broke up," and not a vestige remained.

"What time be 'igh water?" asked one of the men.

"A quarter to five, George," replied another. "See, the lifeboats are off 'ome."

"Do you happen to know the name of the vessel?" asked my father.

"No, sir, we don't; and what's more, we can't make out 'ow she got in there, unless it was she couldn't make out the leadin' lights."

"I think we may as well make for home, Reggie," said my father. "There's nothing to be seen, and no good to be done."

We descended the headland, and reached the sea-level at Pridmouth beach, where the waves were tumbling in heavily, though, owing to the shift of wind, with not so much violence. Under the shelter of a friendly rock, we rested for nearly half an hour, making a sorry meal from the biscuits my father had been thoughtful enough to remind me to bring.

On resuming our way we had just passed the cottages near the grotto, and were about to take the steep path leading to the top of the cliffs on the other side of the little bay, when, a well-known voice shouted—

"Wait a bit, Howard!"

We both turned round, and, to our intense astonishment, within five yards of us stood my Uncle Herbert.

Coatless, hatless, and clad only in a pair of trousers that were much too small for him, a grey shirt, and a pair of canvas shoes, he looked like a regular tramp, while a strip of linen bound round his forehead half concealed his features. Yet it was Uncle Herbert, sure enough, and we stood still in speechless surprise.

"Is that all you have to say to a fellow?" he exclaimed, wringing my father's hand.

"However, in the name of all that's wonderful, did you get here?" asked my father.

"Come ashore from the wreck, of course," he replied, speaking as if it were an everyday occurrence.

"I am afraid you are the only one who did so. Where did you get that rig-out?"

"At yonder cottage. They were awfully kind to me. But let's make for home, for I'm terribly tired, hungry, and knocked about. I'll tell you everything later on."

We began to ascend a steep, tree-fringed path that led up from Pridmouth Bay to the top of the cliffs, and I noticed that my uncle limped painfully. Without speaking a word, my father helped him over the stile, then, one on each side of him, we assisted his halting footsteps.

In this manner we slowly negotiated two fields; and at length came to a hollow, where a rifle-range is situated. Here the cliffs were not more than twenty feet in height, and the sea was sweeping over the exposed pathway. It was now broad daylight, though the sun was hidden by fleeting masses of cloud, and the wind still blew furiously, whistling through the barley and young shoots of corn.

"We shall never be able to get him up this next rise without assistance, Reggie," said my father, glancing at his wellnigh helpless brother. "Just run to the top of the cliff and see if any one is in sight."

Running, while clad in oilskins, is hot and tiring work, and I was almost breathless when I reached the highest part of the cliff path. Not a creature was in sight, so I began to return. Just at that moment, in some bushes to the side of the path, there was a movement, and I caught a momentary glimpse of a face I shall never forget.

A man was lying full length in the gorse. He had evidently been watching us as we descended the hollow. He was without doubt a foreign sailor, judging by his olive complexion, black eyes, long hair, and the large earrings he wore. He was clad in a red shirt, blue trousers, and red stocking cap, while round his waist was a soiled leather belt, from which hung a sheath-knife in a long pig-skin case, and by the saturated state of his clothes and his matted hair I knew he had been in the water. But for an instant he eyed me with a look of diabolical rage on his face, then, springing to his feet, he rushed past and sped towards the town, leaving me standing in bewilderment at the strange apparition.

However, I did not mention the matter when I returned, for it was evident that there were more important things to consider.

"There's no help for it," said my father when I told him of the uselessness of my errand. "We must manage it somehow. Come along, Herbert, old boy," he added encouragingly. "Buck up, and you'll soon be safely home."

My uncle struggled gamely to his feet, and the tedious progress was resumed, but ere we had gone a few steps he suddenly staggered and fell unconscious to the ground.

Thereupon I saw my father perform a feat of strength and endurance which, strong as he was, utterly astonished me. Throwing off his oilskins, he bent down, and, hauling his brother's inanimate form upon his broad back, raised himself and set off at a rapid pace towards Fowey, I struggling in the rear, though I carried nothing but his discarded coat.

Up the steep path he pressed, without pausing a moment; as sure-footed as a goat he trod the narrow way, made additionally dangerous by reason of the slime, and, in less than half an hour, gained the town, never resting till he placed his burden on the steps of the ferry.

Willing hands helped us lift my uncle out of the boat, and, accompanied by a doctor, and followed by a pair of reporters and a knot of curious onlookers, the little procession reached my father's house, my uncle's strange escape from the sea being a subject of much conjecture and not a little romance.

"Absolute quietness is essential," was the doctor's mandate, and in obedient silence our neighbours went away, the reporters following, on hearing that no details were forthcoming, to prepare a column of sensational copy based on the flimsiest material imaginable.

Worn out with my night's vigil, I turned in before noon and slept like a top till the following morning. My father watched by the patient's bedside till nearly midnight, when, satisfied that there was no cause for serious anxiety, and that the expected symptoms of brain fever had not shown themselves, he allowed himself to be persuaded to snatch a few hours' sleep; but before I was awake he was up and about, showing no signs of the physical and mental strain he had undergone.

Uncle Herbert, too, was awake, and beyond complaining of a slight stiffness, refused to admit that he was ill. No mention of the shipwreck had passed between the brothers, but my father, taking me aside, told me that it was surmised that the unfortunate ship was the "Andrea Doria," that being the name painted on a couple of lifebuoys and a shattered whaler that had been washed ashore at Pridmouth Bay, and that my uncle was the only survivor.

"The only survivor?" I repeated. "Then where did that foreign-looking sailor come from?"

"What foreign sailor was that?" inquired my father, and, having told him of my encounter with the mysterious stranger on the cliff, he remarked—

"I wonder what his little game is."

The doctor called again in the afternoon and pronounced his patient out of danger; and, free from the ban of silence, Uncle Herbert began his narrative.

Chapter III

UNCLE HERBERT'S NARRATIVE

"NO doubt you wondered why I returned home by the vessel which came to a bad ending on the Cannis, instead of by the regular mail service. However, before explaining why I took this apparently erratic step, I'll tell you about the documents I obtained from Sarmientos. First and foremost there was the cipher, still preserved in the little metal box. I have not got it here; but, thank goodness, it's safe enough in the keeping of the cottagers at Pridmouth, the same people who kindly lent me the garb in which I made my appearance to you. There's not much in it to look at, but in all probability we shall find it a tough nut to crack. It is a piece of parchment, on which is drawn a square, subdivided into over two hundred smaller squares, most of which are blank, but a few contain various hieroglyphics, and the vague directions, 'steer nor'-east.' However, we will go into that when we get it. The other papers, which, unfortunately, were stolen——"

"Stolen?" exclaimed my father anxiously.

"Yes, stolen; but I was going to say that they were of no apparent value—merely a sort of diary kept by Ross Trevena during his residence in Brazil, the title-deeds of his plantation at San Antonio de Riachaya, a few indentures, and an old piece of parchment, covered with figures—apparently a sort of ready-reckoner.

"As I told you in my last letter, the natives did not appear to appreciate my presence in Pernambuco, or, rather, in the outskirts, for San Antonio is about four miles from the city. Once the hacienda where I was staying was broken into, but the intruders were foiled by Chappell's bulldog, Chappell being, by the way, an English engineer with whom I became friendly, and he happened to be staying with me at the time of the attempted burglary. Twice I was set upon by a party of Brazilians, but the sight of the muzzle of a revolver cooled their ardour, and one night as I was sitting in the patio a pistol bullet whizzed unpleasantly close to my head. Why they bestowed these attentions on me I cannot imagine, unless they had a mistaken idea that I had a secret hoard or a clue to a treasure somewhere in the district. Possibly they do not realize that it is a far cry from Brazil to the Islands of the Pacific.

"However, under the circumstances, I thought that the best thing I could do was to clear out as quickly as possible, and, as it happened, an Italian tramp, the 'Andrea Doria,' was about to sail direct to Fowey to load up with china clay. She wasn't a bad sort of vessel, as foreigners go, being built so lately as 1893, and her captain and officers were quite decent fellows, especially from a social point of view. Probably you remember the 'old man,' Luigi Righi; he's been in this harbour several times, but, poor chap, I'm afraid he won't enter again, unless his corpse is carried in by the tide. The crew were all Italian, excepting a couple of Brazilians shipped to replace some of the men who had deserted at Bahia. Well, we cleared out of the harbour, high in ballast, and had an uneventful run until we sighted the Longships, and here we fell in with thick weather, which ended up with a regular southerly gale.

"We were able to catch only a glimpse of the Lizard lights, then everything was blotted out in the mirk. I stayed up all night, keeping on the bridge with the skipper and the second mate. About 11 p.m. the captain decided we were too close in shore, and telegraphed to the engine-room to slow down to half-speed, intending to keep well out until he could pick up the Eddystone lights, so I came to the conclusion that he thought it safer to make for Plymouth rather than enter Fowey Harbour in such a gale.

"Just as our helm was put hard-a-port, I saw a huge wave bearing down on our starboard bow. It burst over our fo'c'sle in a solid mass, carrying away everything movable, and, hearing a warning shout from the captain, I cowered behind the canvas storm-dodgers, and held on like grim death. The crest of the wave swept the bridge, tearing away the greater part of the rail and the ladder, and with the former went the mate. I could just distinguish his cry of terror above the howling of the gale. The captain slid down one of the bridge stanchions, and, needless to say, I followed suit, and on gaining the shelter of the wheel-house we found that the steam steering-gear had broken down. Almost at the same moment the chief engineer rushed on deck reporting four feet of water in the engine-room, and the quartermaster, staggering along from aft, announced that the loss of the rudder had caused an alarming leak in the after-hold.

"The skipper seemed calm enough, for he translated his subordinate's reports to me; but a few minutes afterwards up came the panic-stricken engine-room staff, gesticulating, and calling on all the saints in the calendar, while from the engine-room-hatch poured a thick cloud of steam, and immediately afterwards the dull throb of the propeller ceased, and we were helpless in the trough of the sea.

"It seemed hours that we drifted in utter helplessness, sea after sea breaking in, carrying away all the boats on the starboard side, while, by the vessel's sluggishness in shaking herself free, I knew she was sinking fast.

"Something prompted me to go below and secure the precious papers, but on gaining my berth I found the cabin door had been forced open and the place hurriedly ransacked, all my personal belongings being scattered on the floor. There were no signs of the documents, though luckily I had the box containing the cipher sewn in my waistbelt. At first thoughts I came to the conclusion that the motion of the vessel had caused the disorder in the cabin, but the sight of the two locked portmanteaux cut open, apparently with a sharp knife, destroyed this theory. In spite of the peril of the situation, I argued that, if robbery had been the motive, the papers, being of no apparent value, would have been overlooked; but further search showed that there was some deliberate reason that had induced the thief to take them.

"In the midst of my hurried search came a shock that made the vessel shudder so violently that I was thrown against the for'ard bulkhead of the cabin. The ship was aground.

"I sprang forward to rush on deck, but, to my horror, I found that the cabin-door had jammed in its frame and I was a prisoner.

"I remember once, when I was a small boy (you were not there at the time), our pet cat was caught by its head in a jug while trying to steal some milk. How I laughed at the wretched creature's antics, as in an agony of fright it tore round the room with the jug adhering firmly to its head. Poor brute! It has my sympathy now, for its state of mind must have been very much like mine when I found myself trapped in the cabin of the sinking ship.

"I was mad with terror. Shouting, I flung myself again and again at the unyielding door, pounding at it with my fists, till, with my knuckles streaming with blood, I was obliged to desist through sheer exhaustion.

Suddenly the doomed vessel listed heavily to port, and I threw myself bodily against the door in a forlorn effort. The framework crashed outwards, and I fell ponderously into the alleyway, where I lay in a half-conscious condition till a rush of water flooding the narrow passage brought back my scattered senses.

"I managed to squeeze through the partially closed companion and gain the deck. The scene of confusion had increased with all the horrors of shipwreck. A few of the less-frenzied members of the crew had lit a tar-barrel, and by the vivid glare of the flames I saw a crowd of half-maddened seamen making a rush for the sole remaining lifeboat.

"In the desperate struggle knives flashed, but whether it was by steel or by water that the wretched, demented creatures met their fate matters little, for directly the boat was lowered it was crushed like an eggshell against the ship's side. There was a short yet terrible shriek of terror, and then the noise of Nature's weapons alone was heard.

"The surviving members of the crew sent up a few rockets, and, in spite of the peril of our situation, we felt cheered by the answering flash from a rocket ashore, and at about the same time the atmosphere cleared somewhat, and I saws a red light giving a double flash at quick intervals.

"Then I knew by the irony of fate that this was St. Catherine's light, and that we were cast on the rocks within sight of home.

"All this time the ship was breaking up fast, and, as wave after wave swept over the doomed vessel, the little knot of survivors grew steadily less, the men being so numbed with continued exposure that they retained no strength to resist their relentless fate.

"I could see that the longer I held on, the more chance there would be of the breaking dawn helping, so that the possibilities of reaching shore in safety would be correspondingly greater, though I had sad misgivings of ever gaining dry land, alive.

"However, I lashed myself securely to a fife-rail, which seemed the least likely to carry away, making a simple hitch, so as to cast myself adrift at the critical moment. The vessel had now listed to such an extent that walking would have been an impossibility, while the remaining portion of the ship trembled under the violent shocks as waves struck the gaping sides and fell in a green cascade over the miserable wretches who cowered to lee'ard.

"At length, after hours of interminable waiting, as it seemed, a grey light began to break over the awful scene, and, looking landwards, I saw the misty outline of the Gribben, though, of course, there were no people visible, neither could they have seen us in that dim light.

"The ship had struck within a hundred yards of the Cannis rock, and in the trough of the breaking seas I could make out the iron standard of the danger beacon, a mockery in our present state.

"At that moment something prompted me to look sideways to see how my fellow-sufferers fared, and to my surprise I made out the figure of one of the Brazilian seamen crawling cautiously towards me. In the semi-darkness I saw that in his right hand he grasped a knife; then, before I could realise the situation, he made a vicious thrust at me with the glittering steel. Even as he did so, the deck seemed to burst upwards, and the miscreant stumbled. The knife fell, but not where it was intended, and, descending on the rope that held me to the rail, it severed it like pack-thread, and the next moment I found myself struggling in the waves.

"I must have been swept across the deck with considerable force, for some time elapsed before I reached the surface, and it was with mingled feelings of despair and exultation that I began to strike out for the shore.

"'Cheer up, Herbert, old man!' I continually exclaimed to myself. 'Everything helps to set you shorewards—wind, waves, and your own efforts. Better be drowned than perish by a knife-thrust, anyway.' And then, in the midst of these encouragements, I thought of the pitiless rocks, and, knowing them as I did, I could form a pretty sure idea of my fate. Just then I noticed something that filled me with renewed hope. The ship was aground, as I have related, within a hundred yards of the Cannis, and now I saw that I was not cast over that jagged rock, but had been borne well to the eastward of it, so that there was a hope—a mere fighting chance—of being swept into the comparatively sheltered waters of Pridmouth Bay.

"I continued to strike out with swift strokes, relying on my strength to last till I reached shore, and my ability to withstand the cold.

"Slowly I neared the shore till the bold headland of the Gribben was abreast, and I had all my work cut out to keep parallel to the ledge of rocks on its eastern side and to prevent myself being swept away from the mouth of the little bay; and, in spite of my efforts, I felt the numbing effects of the icy water gradually telling on my exhausted limbs. How long I kept on swimming I cannot tell, for my actions had become more or less mechanical, till in the trough of an enormous roller I felt my feet touch bottom.

"In another moment I was in the midst of the broken seas, and alternately thrown violently shorewards by one wave and washed back by the undertow, without possessing the strength to save myself, I realized dimly that the little remaining breath I had was being dashed out of my body. Yet in the midst of it all I felt no actual pain, neither did I seem to mind the danger. A vague, unaccountable sensation of indifference gave place to a rapid succession of mental pictures. In a few seconds I had lived my life once again. In times past I have scoffed at similar statements, but now I know it for a fact.

"My last impression of that awful struggle was that I was lying in the soft, yielding sand, with the backwash pouring over me, and the dull roar of an approaching breaker. Then came the crash of the falling cataract, the flash of thousands of brilliant lights, and complete oblivion.

"When I opened my eyes I found myself lying on a rough wooden stool in the garden of a cottage, and a couple of men were chafing my limbs with rough towels. My head throbbed horribly, and I was aware that there was a bandage tied tightly over my temples, from which the blood trickled in a little stream down my face.

"Directly they saw I had come to my senses they carried me over to the cottage, stripping off my wet clothes, and put me into a bed; but, in spite of a dizzy sensation, I soon insisted on getting up, my one desire being to make for home as fast as I could.

"Seeing that I was terribly in earnest, the men rigged me out in some dry clothes, and left me with the intention of borrowing a pony and cart from a neighbouring house; but directly they had gone, a sudden impulse seized me—possibly I was temporarily out of my mind—and I staggered out of the cottage, without reckoning on the long walk home in my tottering condition; but fortunately for me, I had not gone many yards before I saw you and Reggie on ahead, and the rest you know."

"You always were a hare-brained rascal in some respects," remarked my father; "and there was a great possibility of your pegging out through sheer exhaustion, in which case there would have been no survivors from the ill-fated 'Andrea Doria.'"

"Then I suppose I am the only survivor?" asked my uncle.

"I have every reason to believe so," replied my father sadly.

"I think not—at least, I believe I'm right," I exclaimed. "But I didn't like to interrupt Uncle Herbert at the time." And thereupon I told him about my meeting with the foreign-looking sailor on the cliff.

"Yes, I remember you mentioned the circumstance to me," remarked my father. "But why do you suppose the man was a member of the crew of the 'Andrea Doria'? Foreign sailors are not unusual in Fowey."

"But foreigners in saturated clothes do not generally lie concealed in long grass early in the morning."

"What was he like?" asked Uncle Herbert anxiously.

"That's the man to a certainty," declared my uncle decisively, when I had completed the description. "Paulo, they called him. He was one of the two Brazilians we had aboard, and he it was who tried to stab me with a knife."

"Why?"

"That's where you have me. I cannot even guess—unless he was after the cipher."

"Then possibly it was he who stole the papers from your cabin?"

"More than likely. Mark my words, Howard, there is some villainy afoot. Don't you think it would be advisable to set the police on his track?"

"Pooh!" exclaimed my father contemptuously. "We'll hear or see no more of him. Even now he may be working his passage homewards. However, that reminds me: I'll go over to Pridmouth to-morrow and return those well-fitting clothes you were rigged out in, and, at the same time, I'll get hold of the cipher; for, really, I am burning with impatience to tackle the mystery."

Chapter IV

THE CIPHER

SOMEHOW, or the other the news of my uncle's adventures were noised abroad far beyond the limits of our village, and for a week or more we were besieged with letters and telegrams from various people, most of them absolute strangers, offering congratulations, but more frequently asking impertinent questions about the "San Philipo" treasure. Several London and county papers sent representatives down to interview the survivor of the wreck; but to all requests my uncle turned a deaf ear, politely yet firmly refusing to give any information, so that interest in the mystery grew rather than waned; and exaggerated rumours, amusing no doubt to others, appeared in various journals, greatly to my father's and uncle's disgust.

In accordance with his resolution, my father went over to Pridmouth and obtained the metal box with its precious contents, together with the clothes my uncle was wearing at the time of the shipwreck. Curiously enough, his watch, which had been in the water for nearly an hour, was practically uninjured, only a faint trace of rust showing near the hinge, while, on being rewound, it ticked as merrily as ever.

We had arranged to defer the opening of the box till the afternoon, when all three of us would be present; but I firmly believe my father could not resist the temptation of glancing inside to make sure the parchment was still there.

He arrived home in high good humour, for on the return journey, he had picked up a horseshoe and had crossed the ferry in company with a hunchback, both of which incidents are regarded, even in these matter-of-fact days, as being conducive to a run of "good luck"; and preparations were immediately made for the examination of the mysterious relic of old Humphrey Trevena's seafaring days.

I handled the box with a feeling almost of reverence. It was about the size of a cigar-case, and made of a dull, heavy metal resembling bronze, although tarnished with the effects of time and exposure to the salt water. It was embellished on the front of the outside by quaint figures representing Boreal urging a seventeenth-century frigate on its course, with Neptune and Britannia holding a friendly conference in the background, and, on the back, by a monogram of letters "H.T." and the date 1719.

"Open it, Reggie," said my father; and, after I had fumbled about with the spring for a few moments, the lid flew open, and I saw for the first time the puzzling piece of parchment which was fated to lead us through great perils by land and by water ere we accomplished our quest.

With trembling hands I unfolded the paper, my father and uncle looking eagerly over my shoulder. As Uncle Herbert had already informed us, there was nothing but a big square subdivided into a host of smaller ones, and a few unintelligible words and the symbols of degrees, minutes, and seconds of latitude and longitude, with no figures given, save a solitary figure 1.

Here, in fact, is a copy of it—

[Illustration: The unsolved cipher.]

"Well?" asked my uncle, elevating his eyebrows. "What do you make of it, Howard?"

"Give me time. What does he mean by 'steer nor.'-east,' I wonder?"

"That's what has been puzzling me, for in his log Humphrey states definitely that he followed the 'San Philipo' in a nor'-westerly direction, consequently the directions appear to be misleading."

"Possibly they were intended to be so," replied my father dryly. "But these marks of latitude and longitude—do they convey anything?"

"Nothing, except that certain numbers are evidently intended to fill in the squares so indicated, and the puzzle is, what are these numbers?"

"Ah, what?"

"I tell you what; I can see it all now. Amongst the other papers that were stolen was the key to the cipher. Don't you remember my saying that one sheet contained a host of figures? Howard, old man, I am a careless idiot and deserve to be kicked for my negligence."

"It can't be helped," replied my father philosophically. "What is done cannot be undone, so the less said about it the better. We must rack our brains to find a solution to the cipher without the aid of the key. Don't look so glum, Herbert. Better luck next time."

Long after I had gone to bed my parent and his brother pored over the stubborn cipher, either with the aid of frequent references to the log of the "Anne" or the chart of the Pacific, which had been ordered from Potter's some time ago. They must have sat up half the night, for they were both late at breakfast next morning and were horribly short-tempered in consequence.

I went to school that morning as usual, but the excitement of the previous day proved too much for my attention, and, in consequence, I was sent to detention for an hour. If there is anything I loathe, detention holds an easy first, for the monotony of an hour's imprisonment at the end of the day, is particularly galling to a boy fond of outdoor pursuits. I am sure the junior masters do not appreciate the task of looking after the delinquents either, and Newman, the Second Form master, was no exception. So in less than a quarter of an hour he cleared out, leaving us to our own devices.

The fellow at the desk next to mine, a boarder named Ward, of the Upper Fifth, who was ever in hot water, was busily engaged in covering sheets of paper with roughly drawn lines, and as he appeared to derive a considerable amount of satisfaction from the task, I remarked:

"What are you up to, Ward; noughts and crosses?"

"Noughts and crosses, my grandmother!"

"What, then?"

"Trying my hand at a magic square."

"A magic what?"

"Square, you ass! look and see for yourself."

On closer examination I found that he had drawn a rough square and had subdivided it into nine smaller ones, by means of two horizontal and two vertical parallel lines, and the spaces thus formed he was busily filling in with the numbers 1 to 9.

"What happens when you finish it? Where does the magic part of the show come in?" I asked. "It seems a very tame sort of amusement."

"Not when you get thoroughly interested in it," replied Ward. "You see, the idea is to arrange the figures so that each of the horizontal, vertical, and diagonal rows make a total of fifteen. It takes a bit of juggling, I assure you, and I am told that even larger magic squares can be formed. Ah! That's done it."

With a slightly growing interest I watched Ward manipulate the figures until he arrived at the solution, which, for some unexplained reason, I copied down—

[Illustration: A magic square.]

"There are other arrangements of the numbers," he remarked; "for instance, you can get another magic square by exchanging the top and bottom lines or the outside vertical columns; but I have not managed a larger square yet. Hello! Here comes Newman, so it must be close on half-past five."

The miserable hour over, I made my way homewards, revolving in my mind the problem of Humphrey Trevena's cipher, till by some unaccountable impulse, as I was sitting in the ferry-boat that plies between Fowey and Polruan, I formed some hazy connection between Ward's magic square and the exaggerated chessboard design that was so sorely puzzling my father and uncle.

Rapidly the connection grew, till by the time the boat ran alongside Polruan quay-steps I firmly assured myself that Old Humphrey's cipher was based on the principle of a magic square; and, arguing that the solution of the "fifteen" square must be governed by some fixed rule, I determined to try to solve the working of Ward's puzzle, and to apply the principle, if possible, to the more complicated cipher.

With this object in view, I began my task. My father and uncle had gone out to the Yacht Club, so that I knew I should be free from interruption.

My first step was to make a copy of the magic square and indicate the order of the numbers by straight lines from one to the other. When completed, the diagram looked positively bewildering, and the only information I could gather was that the numbers 4, 5, 6 formed one of the diagonals, and ran obliquely from the bottom left-hand corner to the upper right-hand one, and that the centre number was the 5, or, the numeral next to half the highest number of the squares.

Next I tried a "twenty-five" square, the diagonal reading 11, 12, 13, 14, 15. The position of the 1 I had already fixed by that in the smaller square, which, by a sudden inspiration, I remembered occupied the same relative position in Humphrey Trevena's cipher. As in the "nine" square the 7 came immediately below the 6; I adapted the principle by placing the 16 in the square below the 15.

All this took time, but I felt satisfied that I was on the right track, till I came to the rest of the numbers, and, try how I would, I could not apply the principle any farther.

At length, with bewildered brain and aching head, I gave up the task for the time being, and, putting on my cap and calling my dog, I set out for a ramble to try and cool my heated brow.

I intended to walk in the direction of Lanteglos, and make a circuit through Hall Walk, Bodinneck Ferry, and Fowey, but, on reaching the little hamlet of Pont, I sat down on the handrail of the little wooden bridge, and amused myself by sending the dog into the water. At length I desisted, and, ignoring the antics of my faithful companion, I fell into a brown study—a thing under ordinary circumstances I rarely do.

Twilight was drawing in, and against the vivid red hue in the western sky the placid waters of the tree-fringed creek made an entrancing picture, that harmonized with my dreams of adventure in the future, like a presage of good fortune.

Unconsciously I found myself toying with a pocket compass I invariably carried, and as my eyes lingered for a moment on the delicately balanced needle, I saw in my mind's eye, not the compass card, but the outlines of a magic square, with the needle forming the puzzling diagonal. In the haphazard position I held the compass the needle pointed to N.E. on the card, and, like a flash, occurred the directions scrawled upon the mysterious cipher, "Steer nor'-east."

"I have it!" I exclaimed aloud in my excitement. "'Steer nor.'-east' must be old Humphrey's way of expressing the sequence of the numbers on his cipher; and that is the direction of the diagonal."

Without a moment's delay, I hastened home to make a fresh onslaught upon the puzzle, and, to make a long story short, I solved the "twenty-five" square by constructing two similar squares on its north and south sides—i.e. the top right-hand sides—and starting with the figure 1 and working in a N.E. direction, so that directly a number fell within one of the divisions of the adjacent squares, I transferred it to the corresponding division of the original design. But when by this means I came to a space already occupied by a number, I found, by consulting the already completed nine-divisioned square, that the next number was placed in the vacant space that invariably occurred below.

The completed square, which I regarded with considerable satisfaction, appeared as under—

[Illustration: A bigger magic square.]

Total of each vertical, horizontal, and diagonal line = 65.

Now came the crucial test of constructing a square with the same number of subdivisions as there were on Humphrey's cipher, and an intelligent application of the figures to the symbols of latitude and longitude; but here I was nonplussed, for I had no copy of the cipher, neither could I remember the actual numbers of subdivisions.

Just then, however, my father and uncle returned, and while at supper they did not fail to notice my excitement.

"Whatever is the matter with you, Reggie?" asked Uncle Herbert. "You look like a cat on hot bricks."

I was burning with impatience to let them know of my evening's work and its results, but, fearing that after all there might be some flaw in my theory, and having another motive in view, I managed to restrain myself.

Little more was said during the meal, but on its completion preparations were made to continue the investigations of the mystery.

"I say, pater," I exclaimed. "Don't you think it would be better to make a copy of the cipher: it would save the original, you know."

"Just so, Reggie, I will; but I think it's about time you went to bed."

"Another hour won't make much difference," I replied. "You see, to-morrow's a holiday."

My father assented, and gleefully I set about the task of making a duplicate of the cipher, of which I was now firmly convinced I held the key.

It was not a long business, and when completed, I stealthily removed a second copy which I had obtained by means of a carbon paper, and announced my intention of "turning in."

It was, however, far from my thoughts to go to bed, and directly I reached the solitude of my room I set to work to fill up the blank spaces of the cipher, which, thanks to my previous trials with the smaller squares, was a comparatively rapid and easy task.

Total of every horizontal, vertical row = 1695
[Illustration: THE SOLVED CIPHER.]

In less than an hour I had completed the solution, checking the totals, which in every case amounted to the sum of 1,695; and, applying the marks of latitude and longitude, I found that the position was 7° 24' 41" N. and 151° 45' 11" W., which, in spite of the absence of an atlas, I knew would be somewhere in the Pacific Ocean.

Cautiously I made my way downstairs, holding the completed cipher rolled tightly in my hand. The dining-room door was slightly ajar, and through the opening I could see my father and uncle leaning over the table, which was littered with charts, papers, and writing materials.

"I am afraid we are checkmated," I heard my father remark despondently. "The treasure of the 'San Philipo,' will never come within our grasp."

As I entered the room they both looked up in amazement.

"Reggie!" exclaimed my father deprecatingly.

"All right, pater," I replied, with the boldness acquired by my success. "I want to make a bargain with you."

"A bargain? I don't understand."

"What I mean to say is this: If you make a search for the 'San Philipo' treasure, promise me that I can go too."

"Bless the boy!" ejaculated Uncle Herbert. "What does he mean?"

"The possibility of a search is very remote," said my father, "as we have absolutely no definite information to work upon, and no likelihood of gaining any; but I really don't understand what you mean by the word 'bargain.'"

"I mean," I replied stoutly, "that if I find a key to the cipher, do I take part in the search?"

"I see no reason why you shouldn't if——"

"Then you promise?"

"Yes."

"Thanks," I replied, flourishing the paper I held in my hand.

Chapter V

A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE

"EXPLAIN yourself, you young rascal," exclaimed my uncle, gripping me by the shoulder in his excitement.

In reply I handed over my solution, explaining in a few words the principle of the magic square. For a few moments neither of them spoke. The pater, seizing a ruler, made a rough pencil mark on a chart of the Pacific that lay on the table; then, bringing his powerful fist down so heavily that the glasses and drawing instruments fairly jumped, he almost shouted—

"Why, you are a regular brick, Reggie! That's it right enough."

"Are there any islands shown on the chart?" asked my Uncle Herbert.

"Several; but let's turn up Findlay's Directory of the Pacific. Hello! What have we here? 'Truk or Hogoleu Islands. This group is composed of four or five lofty basaltic islands, surrounded by a barrier reef.... Discovered by Captain Duperrey, June 24, 1824' (that is, if Humphrey Trevena hadn't done so a century before). 'The northernmost of the group is in lat. 7° 42' 30" N.' (probably San Philipo Island skipped the navigator's memory). It seems possible that an island does exist at this position eh, Herbert?"

"Certainly. Do they give any further information?"

"Yes; here is a choice piece: 'Captain Cheyne, of the brigs "Naiad" and "Will-o'-the Wisp," came here to collect bêche-de-mer, and were completely taken off their guard by the apparent friendliness of the natives, who at first assisted them to build their curing-houses. As soon as the "Naiad" left, they attacked the "Wisp" with a force of 2,000 men, and were only repulsed with desperate fighting and the loss of six killed and five wounded. They also seized the long-boat, which was recovered the same day.... They had a great number of large Spanish knives, and were armed with brass-hilted cutlasses.'"

"'Spanish knives and brass-hilted cutlasses,'" repeated my uncle. "That's strange."

"It certainly points to a wreck of some Spanish war-vessel in bygone days."

"What do you intend to do in the matter?"

"Why, fit out an expedition," replied my father decisively. "I've already formed a rough plan of action, but it is too late to discuss it to-night. It's time we were all turned in and fast asleep."

So saying, my father swept the papers and charts off the table, locked the former in a safe, and placed the metal box with the now solved cipher in his pocket, then motioned us to retire, and extinguished the lamp.

But for me, sleep was an impossibility. The exciting events of the past few days, culminating in my fortunate discovery, kept me awake, and in almost a fever of suppressed mental activity I was continually turning from side to side in a fruitless endeavour to sleep.

Outside the wind was howling across the harbour, making the trees shiver and creak in a weird and disturbing manner. Presently the clock struck two, and at almost the same time a current of air rushed into my room, causing the half-open door to swing back against the wall.

"Surely they cannot have forgotten to shut the hall door," I thought, and, jumping out of bed, I walked silently towards the staircase. The other inmates had been more fortunate than I; my father was sleeping soundly, while his brother was snoring heavily, the place seemingly trembling under the vibrations of his sonorous efforts, and even as I listened I heard a faint click as if the dining-room door was being opened.

Instantly I crept into uncle's room, gently closed the door, and shook him by the shoulder.

"Wake up!" I whispered. "There's some one broken into the house."

"No luck," he muttered. "Twenty fathoms down. Try again to-morrow," and, turning over, he recommenced his discordant snoring. "Wake up!" I repeated, redoubling the shaking performance. "There's a burglar after the cipher."

The word "cipher" did it, for in an instant he was up and fully awake.

"Hush! Listen!" And carefully opening the door, I hastened to my father's room to arouse him.

We sallied forth to meet the foe; my father and uncle led the way, the latter grasping a revolver, while I followed, feeling somewhat disjointed in my lower limbs.

At the top of the stairs we waited for further signs of the burglar, and in the dismal silence, broken only by the moaning of the wind, I could feel my heart throbbing violently against my ribs. At length came the unmistakable sounds of some one moving cautiously.

A man must naturally feel at a disadvantage when, clad mainly in pyjamas, he is forced single-handed to tackle a house-breaking ruffian; but, with three of us, and the comforting reassurance imparted by the revolver, the deficiency of wardrobe counted for little.

Suddenly the silence was broken by the noise of a furious scuffle, followed by a shriek of pain, and, concealment being no longer necessary, the brothers dashed downstairs. My uncle led in the race, but, tripping over a man's body, he lay half-stunned, while my father, who followed more cautiously, narrowly escaped the same fate. Then some one rushed quickly through the hall and began to fumble with the lock of the front door, and, as the door was thrown violently open, there was a blinding flash from the vicinity of the floor, followed by another yell of pain, and the pungent smell of gunpowder filled the air.

"That's settled his hash, Howard," I heard my uncle exclaim. "Get a light and see what we are up to."

I made for the dining-room to light the lamp, and as I crossed the hall my bare feet stepped in a pool of warm liquid. With trembling fingers I struck a match and lighted the lamp, and, returned to the scene of the struggle.

My uncle was leaning against the wall, the still smoking revolver in his hand, and my father was leaning over a motionless figure huddled at the foot of the stairs, while a stream of blood, through which I had stepped, slowly welled across the floor.