But after a minute or two, he recovered his composure
sufficiently to begin deciphering the crabbed writing, which constant
practice and familiarity with the system enabled him to do immediately,
without even referring to the key. And this was what, with a few
minutes' inspection, Cecil Mitford slowly spelled out of the dirty
manuscript:--

  "From Jamaica. This 23rd day of Jan'y,
  "in the Yeare of our Lord 1663. "My deare Bro.,--I did not think to have written you againe, after
     the scurvie Trick you have played me in disclosing my Affairs to
     that meddlesome Knight that calls himself the King's Secretary: but
     in truth your last Letter hath so moved me by your Vileness that I
     must needs reply thereto with all Expedicion. These are to assure
     you, then, that let you pray how you may, or gloze over your base
     treatment with fine cozening Words and fair Promises, you shall
     have neither lot nor scot in my Threasure, which is indeed as you
     surmise hidden away in England, but the Secret whereof I shall
     impart neither to you nor to no man. I have give commands,
     therefore that the Paper whereunto I have committed the place of
     its hiding shall be buried with my own Body (when God please) in
     the grave-yarde at Port Royal in this Island: so that you shall
     never be bettered one Penny by your most Damnable Treachery and
     Double-facedness. For I know you, my deare Bro., in very truth for
     a prating Coxcomb, a scurvie cowardlie Knave, and a lying Thief of
     other Men's Reputations. Therefore, no more herewith from your very
     humble Ser'vt., and Loving Bro.,

  "IOHN CANN, Capt'n"

Cecil Mitford laid the paper down as he finished reading it with a face
even whiter and paler than before, and with the muscles of his mouth
trembling violently with suppressed emotion. At the exact second when he
felt sure he had discovered the momentous secret, it had slipped
mysteriously through his very fingers, and seemed now to float away into
the remote distance, almost as far from his eager grasp as ever. Even
there, in the musty Record Office, before all the clerks and scholars
who were sitting about working carelessly at their desks at mere
dilettante historical problems--the stupid prigs, how he hated them!--he
could hardly restrain the expression of his pent-up feelings at that
bitter disappointment in the very hour of his fancied triumph. Jamaica! How absolutely distant and unapproachable it sounded! How hopeless the
attempt to follow up the clue! How utterly his day-dream had been dashed
to the ground in those three minutes of silent deciphering! He felt as
if the solid earth was reeling beneath him, and he would have given the
whole world if he could have put his face between his two hands on the
desk and cried like a woman before the whole Record Office. For half an hour by the clock he sat there dazed and motionless, gazing
in a blank disappointed fashion at the sheet of coffee-coloured paper in
front of him. It was late, and workers were dropping away one after
another from the scantily peopled desks. But Cecil Mitford took no
notice of them: he merely sat with his arms folded, and gazed
abstractedly at that disappointing, disheartening, irretrievable piece
of crabbed writing. At last an assistant came up and gently touched his
arm. "We're going to close now, sir," he said in his unfeeling official
tone--just as if it were a mere bit of historical inquiry he was
after--"and I shall be obliged if you'll put back the manuscripts you've
been consulting into F. 27." Cecil Mitford rose mechanically and sorted
out the Cyriack Skinner papers into their proper places. Then he laid
them quietly on the shelf, and walked out into the streets of London,
for the moment a broken-hearted man. But as he walked home alone that clear warm summer evening, and felt the
cool breeze blowing against his forehead, he began to reflect to himself
that, after all, all was not lost; that in fact things really stood
better with him now than they had stood that very morning, before he
lighted upon John Cann's last letter. He had not discovered the actual
hiding-place of the hoard, to be sure, but he now knew on John Cann's
own indisputable authority, first, that there really was a hidden
treasure; second, that the hiding-place was really in England; and
third, that full particulars as to the spot where it was buried might be
found in John Cann's own coffin at Port Royal, Jamaica. It was a risky
and difficult thing to open a coffin, no doubt; but it was not
impossible. No, not impossible. On the whole, putting one thing with
another, in spite of his terrible galling disappointment, he was really
nearer to the recovery of the treasure now than he had ever been in his
life before. Till to-day, the final clue was missing; to-day, it had
been found. It was a difficult and dangerous clue to follow, but still
it had been found. And yet, setting aside the question of desecrating a grave, how all but
impossible it was for him to get to Jamaica! His small funds had long
ago been exhausted in prosecuting the research, and he had nothing on
earth to live upon now but his wretched salary. Even if he could get
three or six months' leave from the Colonial Office, which was highly
improbable, how could he ever raise the necessary money for his passage
out and home, as well as for the delicate and doubtful operation of
searching for documents in John Cann's coffin? It was tantalising, it
was horrible, it was unendurable; but here, with the secret actually
luring him on to discover it, he was to be foiled and baffled at the
last moment by a mere paltry, petty, foolish consideration of two
hundred pounds! Two hundred pounds! How utterly ludicrous! Why, John
Cann's treasure would make him a man of fabulous wealth for a whole
lifetime, and he was to be prevented from realizing it by a wretched
matter of two hundred pounds! He would do anything to get it--for a
loan, a mere loan; to be repaid with cent. per cent. interest; but where
in the world, where in the world, was he ever to get it from? And then, quick as lightning, the true solution of the whole difficulty
flashed at once across his excited brain. He could borrow all the money
if he chose from Ethel! Poor little Ethel; she hadn't much of her own;
but she had just enough to live very quietly upon with her Aunt Emily;
and, thank Heaven, it wasn't tied up with any of those bothering,
meddling three-per-cent.-loving trustees! She had her little all at her
own disposal, and he could surely get two or three hundred pounds from
her to secure for them both the boundless buried wealth of John Cann's
treasure. Should he make her a confidante outright, and tell her what it was that
he wanted the money for?