"Ha! ha! Time will show."

Sail on, O "Harnessed Mule." You carry a weighty freight inside you.

Who will reach the goal first?

Sub-Chapter V.

THE WRECK OF THE "HARNESSED MULE."

Lat.i.tude 80 degrees 25 minutes, longitude 4 degrees 6 minutes--a hot, breathless day. The "Harnessed Mule" glides swiftly over the unruffled blue. The crew loll about, listening to the babbling of the boiling ocean, and now and then lazily extinguishing the flames which break up from the tropically heated planks. It is a typical Pacific day.

The stowaway in the forward hold lies p.r.o.ne, conning his map, and marking the gradual approach of the "Harnessed Mule" to the red cross marked there. Frequently he is compelled to raise himself into a sitting position to give vent to the merriment which possesses him.

"This is better than Latin prose," says he to himself. "How jolly I feel!"

Could he but have guessed that through an adjoining crack another figure was drinking in every word he uttered, and taking it down in official shorthand, he would have spoken in less audible tones!

Yes. The second stowaway is Solomon Smellie, of Scotland Yard, and he has the plaster cast in his pocket.

"This must be about the spot," says Sep, comparing his chart with the figures on the mariner's compa.s.s. "Here goes."

Two vigorous turns of the gimlet, and the "Harnessed Mule" rears on her beam ends, and, with one stupendous lurch, goes to the bottom.

"That's all right," says Sep, as he hauls himself to the summit of a mountain of naked rock, which rises sheer out of the sea on all sides to a height of a thousand feet.

The words are scarcely out of his mouth when his face turns livid, and he trembles violently from head to foot, as he perceives standing before him Solomon Smellie, the detective of Scotland Yard.

Sub-Chapter VI.

THE RENCONTRE.

"This is an unexpected pleasure," says Solomon.

"Delighted, I'm sure," says Septimus, craftily.

Then they talk of the weather, eyeing one another like practised fencers in a death struggle.

"Ha! ha!" thinks Sep; "he has heard of the sunken doubloons."

"Ha! ha!" thinks Solomon. "If he only knew I had that plaster cast in my pocket!"

"Are you making a long stay here?" says the former naively.

"Depends," is the dark, laconic reply.

"Sorry I must leave you for a little," says Sep. "An appointment."

And he takes a magnificent header from the cliff into the very spot where the wrecked gold-ship lies buried.

When, after a couple of hours, he rose to the surface for breath, Sep was relieved to find himself alone.

"Peeler was right," said he to himself, flinging back the matted hair from his n.o.ble brow. "My fortune is made."

And he dived again.

In the damp cabin of the sunk ship stood the gaunt form of many a brave mariner, faithful to his post even in death. Seth gave them a pa.s.sing glance, and shuddered a little as he met their gla.s.sy eyes. He was about to rise to the surface with the remainder of his booty, when the figure nearest the door fell against him.

Turning on him, a cold perspiration suffused our hero from head to foot, and his hair rose like porcupine quills on his head.

It was not a corpse, but Solomon Smellie, the detective of Scotland Yard.

Sep had barely time to close to the cabin door, and strike out with his precious bags for the surface. He felt he had had a narrow escape of detection, and that the sooner he sought a change of climate the better.

As for Solomon, it would have needed a strong door to keep him from his prey.

"Ha, ha!" said he, "the chain grows link by link. Two and two make four. Patience, Solomon, and you will be famous yet."

Sub-Chapter VII.

THE FETE AND THE FRACAS.

It was the most brilliant ball which had ever been given in the English capital.

The very waiters sparkled with diamonds!

The gorgeous suite of apartments, several miles in length, were ablaze with all that wealth and beauty in electric light could effect.

Coote and Tinney's band was in attendance.

Down the sparkling avenues of l.u.s.tres whirled the revellers in all the ecstasy of the hilarious dance.

Peals of laughter and the rustling of fans combined to make the scene the most gorgeous ever witnessed in this or any other metropolis.

The host of the princely revel was a mysterious young foreign n.o.bleman, known by the name of the Duc de Septimominorelli, and reputed to be the richest man in Europe.

What makes this evening's entertainment particularly brilliant is the fact that it is to be graced by the dazzling presence of the peerless Donna Velvetina Peeleretta, who, as every one knows, is shortly to wear the diamond tiara of the house of Septimominorelli.

In other words, she and the Duc are betrothed.

The festivities are at their height, and the Duc for the fifth time is leading his charming _fiancee_ to the supper-room, when the venerable butler announces, in a voice that attracts universal attention, a new arrival.

"Monsieur le Marquis de Smellismelli!"

If possible the Marquis was more magnificently attired even than the Duc, and went through the salutation with the easy grace of a man who had often appeared in Court.

"Who is he?" asked every one.

"An old college friend," explained the Duc.

But his face was the colour of his handkerchief, and the place shook with the trembling of his limbs.