of smoke on the horizon was all that was left to denote the presence of the Naomi when John Bard came to me as I sat in the shade of the after-deck of the Cristobal, going through the mail he had brought me from Rodriguez. He dropped into a chair at my side.
“Captain Lawless and that Scots engineer of his,” he said, “spent the greater part of the night ashore grubbing for gold round the image. But they didn't find as much as a dollar. And then to discover they had lost their launch! Gee! they were as sick as mud!”
“Bah!” I answered, “I'm fed up with the whole place. The sooner we're at sea again, the better I shall be pleased. I want to get back to work, John...”
“We're sailing at four o'clock,” my friend replied. “But before we up anchor, Desmond, old man, I should like to have a look at that burial chamber and the passage by which you escaped. What do you say to taking me ashore now and showing me round?”
“Anything to pass the time,” I said wearily. “When do we start?”
“Right now. And I'll bring a pick and spade. If there's time we might have another grub for gold in the lava round the idol...”
“You bet the canny Scot hasn't left an inch of soil unturned,” I laughed as old John went off.
Half an hour later we were pushing our way across the rocky valley at the end of which, against the mountain-side, the great idol was set. We skirted the smoking volcano, and at length stood before the narrow fissure, half hidden by a gigantic boulder, through which I had emerged from the burial-chamber.
We had borrowed a couple of lanterns from the ship and Bard carried a pick-axe while I shouldered a spade. We left our tools at the entrance and lit our lamps. Then I led the way into the passage. At the end I found the solid masonry of the table hanging down into the passage. A steady heave swung it round, and there, above our heads, was the black square opening of the death-chamber.
And now I struck. The place had too poignant memories for me. I hoisted Bard up into the hole, but I declined to accompany him. Swinging my lamp in my hand I wandered back along the passage towards the cleft by which we had entered.
I had gone perhaps a hundred yards from the cave when the light of my lantern, striking low, revealed a square flag set in the floor of the passage. It sounded hollow to the foot. Setting down my lamp, I stooped to examine it, and then I saw that the stone was roughly carved. The carving was worn and filled in with dust. I scraped it clear as best I could with my hands, and then saw that the stone was carved with the likeness of a turtle, the counterpart of the turtle carved on the table in the cave. I could see the head and tail and the four flippers roughly hewn.
“John!” I shouted. “Here, John!”
My voice reverberated weirdly in the low-roofed passage. I dropped to my knees and tried to heave the stone up. But it was firmly set and resisted all my efforts. Then I heard Bard's footsteps echoing along the passage.
“Will you look at that?” I said as he came up.
“By George!” he exclaimed. “Captain Roberts, his mark! Can you heave it up? Wait! I'll get the tools!”
And he darted off along the passage.
With the aid of the pick we prized the stone up. A slot had obviously been cut for it in the rock. A shallow opening was revealed and at the bottom stood a black box.
It was of black leather, discoloured, but apparently in good condition, the corners bound with some dull metal which I took to be brass. It was about four feet long with a rounded lid studded with nails. Bard lifted up one of the lanterns whilst I, lying on my face, dropped an arm into the hole. My fingers closed on a handle at the side of the box. I heaved. The box was immensely heavy and I found that I could barely lift it. I managed, however, to push it to one side thus making room for my feet. Then I dropped into the hole, upended the casket, and by dint of our combined exertions we landed it on the floor of the passage.
I looked at Bard and he looked at me.
“You—open it!” I said hoarsely.
The box seemed to be of Spanish manufacture, for the leather was handsomely tooled in the Cordova fashion. It was fitted with an elaborately chased iron or steel lock with a hasp that rattled to Bard's touch. Without further ceremony he inserted the point of the pick under the hasp, wrenched, and, the nails giving way in the rotten leather, the whole lock came off. Then he threw up the lid and we saw a layer of discoloured brown canvas. This I pulled aside, and we fell back in amazement.