vered nothing of special
interest, only an accumulation of business letters, manifests and old
sea charts, showing that the _Sea Gull_ had been concerned in a vast
variety of enterprises. It was only after I had thus emptied the
unfastened drawers that I came upon one securely locked. I tried key
after key before discovering the right one, realizing from Henley's
squirming that I must be drawing near the goal. The first paper
touched was a copy of the will, and a little further rummaging put me
into possession of various documents which, I believed from a cursory
glance at their contents, were of utmost value. These I hastily
transferred to my coat pocket, making sure I had the original letter
descriptive of Philip Henley's death, as well as the copy of a
memorandum which the half-breed had evidently drawn up for the
convenience of his lawyers. I ran through this last swiftly, surprised
at its frankness, and convinced that the attorneys employed must be as
great rascals as the man who commanded their services. Evidently they
had requested full particulars so as to be prepared for any emergency.

I presume this search, swift as I endeavored to conduct it, occupied
fully a half hour, every nerve strained by fear of interruption.
However, I could not desist until I had handled every scrap of paper,
and the result well repaid the risk. Once I heard steps above on the
deck, but, so far as I knew, no one entered the outer cabin.

"I think I've got your number," I said finally, wheeling about to look
at him.

"You 've got to get away first," he sneered defiantly, "and you 'll not
find that so easy. My turn will come yet, you spy, and then you 'll
learn how I bite."

I laughed, feeling no mercy.

"All in good time, friend; I think you have had your innings; now it's
mine. So you are Charles Henley?"

He did not answer.

"The illegitimate son of Judge Henley and a negro mother. That's a
clever forgery, that paper of legal adoption, I admit. Must have had
legal advice for that. What did you pay the lawyers?"

He stared at me with compressed lips.

"Not ready to confess yet? Well, you will be. By the way, who was
that Pierre who wrote telling you of Philip's death? Not Vonique, was
it?"

"You damn white devil!" he burst forth, tortured beyond resistance.
"What do you know about him? Who told you?"

"You 'll learn it all soon enough."

"You 're a sneaking detective!"

"Oh, no, Henley; I 'm merely a