tile in vain chase of the man
I had glimpsed two minutes before. I say a vain chase, for I had not
plunged twenty yards into the plantation before--short-sighted mole
that I am--I had lost the track. I pulled up, on the point of
shouting for help, and with that there flashed on me the thought of
the Major's guineas in my pocket. If I called for help I called down
suspicion on myself, and suspicion enough to damn me. How could I
explain my presence in the garden? How could I account for the
money--straight from the Major's cashbox?"

Captain Branscome paused and gazed around upon us as if caught once
more in that terrible moment of choice. Miss Belcher met his gaze
and nodded.

"So the upshot was that you ran for it? Well, I can't say that I
blame you. But, as it happens, if you had stood still the cashbox
might have helped to clear you; for it was found next morning, half a
mile away in the brook, below my lodge-gate."

"And there's one thing," said Plinny, "we may thank God for, if it is
possible to be thankful for anything in this dreadful business.
The murderer, whoever he was, got little profit from his crime, for I
know pretty well the state of your poor father's finances, Harry; and
if, as Captain Branscome tells us, he had taken ten guineas from the
box, there must have been very few left in it."

"My good soul," said Miss Belcher, "the man wasn't after money!
He wanted the map this Captain Coffin had left in the Major's
keeping. That's as plain as the nose on your good, dear face.
If the map happened to be in the cashbox, and I'll bet ten to one it
wasn't--"

"You may bet ten thousand to one!" I cried. "It was never in the
cashbox at all. It was wrapped up in the flag my father carried into
the house."

"Bless the boy," said Miss Belcher; "he's not half a fool, after all!
Yes, yes--where is the flag?"

"On the flagstaff," said I. "I hoisted it there this morning."

"Eh?"

"And here," I panted, jumping up in my excitement, "here is Captain
Coffin's map!"

I heard Miss Belcher breathing hard as I lugged out the oilskin
packet, tore open the knotted string which bound it, and, drawing
forth the parchment, spread it, with shaking fingers, on the table.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE CHART OF MORTALLONE.

While the others drew their chairs closer, and while I spread flat
the parchment--which was crinkled (by the action of salt water,
maybe)--I had time to assure myself that this was the self