Part 36 (1/2)

”Why, I guess our man has figured this thing all out. Brought this pole up from the beach to plant it here. Why? Because this was the best observation point. No good as a permanent residence, though. Planted his flag and went back.”

”Why didn't we see him on the beach, then?”

”Did you notice a cave around to the north? Good refuge in case of fumes.”

”It's worth trying,” said the captain, putting up his gla.s.s.

”Hold on, sir. What's this? Here's something. Look here.”

Trendon pointed to a small bit of wood rather neatly carved to the shape of an indicatory finger, and lashed to the staff, at the height of a man's face. The others cl.u.s.tered around.

”Oh, the devil!” cried Trendon. ”It must have got twisted. It's pointing straight down.”

”Strange performance,” said the captain. ”However, since it points that way--heave aside those rocks, men.”

The first slab lifted brought to light a corner of cardboard. This, on closer examination, proved to be the cover of a book. The rocks rolled right and left, and as the flag-staff, deprived of its support, tottered and fell, the trove was dragged forth and handed to the captain. While the ground jarred with occasional tremors and the mountain puffed forth its vaporous threats, he and the surgeon, seated on a rock, gave themselves with complete absorption to the reading.

III

THE CACHE

Outwardly the book accorded ill with its surroundings. In that place of desolation and death, it typified the petty neatness of office processes.

Properly placed, it should have been found on a desk, with pens, rulers, and other paraphernalia forming exact angles or parallels to it. It was a quarto, bound in marbled paper, with black leather over the hinges. No external label suggested its owners.h.i.+p or uses, but through one corner, blackened and formidable in its contrast to the peaceful purposes of the volume, a hole had been bored. The agency of perforation was obvious. A bullet had made it.

”Seen something of life, I reckon,” said Trendon, as the captain turned the volume about slowly in his hands.

”And of death,” returned Captain Parkinson solemnly. ”Do you know, Trendon, I almost dread to open this.”

”Pshaw!” returned the other. ”What is it to us?”

He threw the cover back. Neatly lettered on the inside, in the fine and slightly angular writing characteristic of the Teutonic scholar, was the legend:

Karl Augustus Schermerhorn, 1409-1/2 Spruce Street, Philadelphia, Pa.

[Ill.u.s.tration: With a strangled cry the sailor cast the s.h.i.+rt from him]

The opposite page was blank. Captain Parkinson turned half a dozen leaves.

”German!” he cried, in a note of disappointment, ”Can you read German script?”

”After a fas.h.i.+on,” replied the other. ”Let's see. _Es wonnte sechs--und-- dreissig unterjacke_,” he read. ”Why, blast it, was the man running a haberdashery? What have three dozen unders.h.i.+rts to do with this?”

”A memorandum for outfitting, probably,” suggested the captain. ”Try here.”

”Chemical formulae,” said Trendon. ”Pages of 'em. The devil! Can't make a thing of it.”

”Well, here's something in English.”

”Good,” said the other. ”_By combining the hyper-sulphate of iridium with the fumes arising from oxide of copper heated to 1000 C. and combining with picric acid in the proportions described in formula x 18, a reaction, the nature of which I have not fully determined, follows. This must be performed with extreme care owing to the unstable nature of the benzene compounds._”

”Picric acid? Benzene compounds? Those are high explosives,” said Captain Parkinson. ”We should have Barnett go over this.”