Treasure

Our captive sat in the cabin opposite to the iron box which he had done
so much and waited so long to gain. He was a sunburned, reckless-eyed
fellow, with a net-work of lines and wrinkles all over his mahogany
features, which told of a hard, open-air life. There was a singular
prominence about his bearded chin which marked a man who was not to be
easily turned from his purpose. His age may have been fifty or
thereabouts, for his black, curly hair was thickly shot with gray. His
face in repose was not an unpleasing one, though his heavy brows and
aggressive chin gave him, as I had lately seen, a terrible expression
when moved to anger. He sat now with his handcuffed hands upon his
lap, and his head sunk upon his breast, while he looked with his keen,
twinkling eyes at the box which had been the cause of his ill-doings.
It seemed to me that there was more sorrow than anger in his rigid and
contained countenance. Once he looked up at me with a gleam of
something like humor in his eyes.

"Well, Jonathan Small," said Holmes, lighting a cigar, "I am sorry that
it has come to this."

"And so am I, sir," he answered, frankly. "I don't believe that I can
swing over the job. I give you my word on the book that I never raised
hand against Mr. Sholto. It was that little hell-hound Tonga who shot
one of his cursed darts into him. I had no part in it, sir. I was as
grieved as if it had been my blood-relation. I welted the little devil
with the slack end of the rope for it, but it was done, and I could not
undo it again."

"Have a cigar," said Holmes; "and you had best take a pull out of my
flask, for you are very wet. How could you expect so small and weak a
man as this black fellow to overpower Mr. Sholto and hold him while you
were climbing the rope?"

"You seem to know as much about it as if you were there, sir. The truth
is that I hoped to find the room clear. I knew the habits of the house
pretty well, and it was the time when Mr. Sholto usually went down to
his supper. I shall make no secret of the business. The best defence
that I can make is just the simple truth. Now, if it had been the old
major I would have swung for him with a light heart. I would have
thought no more of knifing him than of smoking this cigar. But it's
cursed hard that I should be lagged over this young Sholto, with whom I
had no quarrel whatever."

"You are under the charge of Mr. Athelney Jones, of Scotland Yard. He