And it
was for this that he had madly thrown up his Colonial Office
appointment, for this that he had wasted Ethel's money, for this that he
had burdened his conscience with a world of lies; all to find in the end
that John Cann's secret was hidden under five fathoms of tropical
lagoon, among the scattered and waterlogged ruins of Old Port Royal. His
fortitude forsook him for a single moment, and burying his face in his
two hands, there, under the sweltering midday heat of that deadly
sandbank, he broke down utterly, and sobbed like a child before the very
eyes of the now softened old negro sexton. IV. It was not for long, however. Cecil Mitford had at least one strong
quality--indomitable energy and perseverance. All was not yet lost: if
need were, he would hunt for John Cann's tomb in the very submerged
ruins of Old Port Royal. He looked up once more at the puzzled negro,
and tried to bear this bitter downfall of all his hopes with manful
resignation. At that very moment, a tall and commanding-looking man, of about sixty,
with white hair but erect figure, walked slowly from the cocoa-nut grove
on the sand-spit into the dense and tangled precincts of the cemetery. He was a brown man, a mulatto apparently, but his look and bearing
showed him at once to be a person of education and distinction in his
own fashion. The old sexton rose up respectfully as the stranger
approached, and said to him in a very different tone from that in which
he had addressed Cecil Mitford, "Marnin, sah; marnin, Mr. Barclay. Dis
here buckra gentleman from Englan', him come 'quiring in de cemetry
after de grabe of pusson dat dead before de great earthquake. What for
him come here like-a-dat on fool's errand, eh, sah? What for him not
larn before him come dat Port Royal all gone drowned in de year 1692?" The new-comer raised his hat slightly to Cecil Mitford, and spoke at
once in the grave gentle voice of an educated and cultivated mulatto. "You wanted some antiquarian information about the island, sir; some
facts about some one who died before the Port Royal earthquake? You have
luckily stumbled across the right man to help you; for I think if
anything can be recovered about anybody in Jamaica, I can aid you in
recovering it. Whose grave did you want to see?" Cecil hardly waited to thank the polite stranger, but blurted out at
once, "The grave of John Cann, who died in 1669." The stranger smiled quietly. "What! John Cann, the famous buccaneer?" he
said, with evident delight. "Are you interested in John Cann?" "I am," Cecil answered hastily. "Do you know anything about him?" "I know all about him," the tall mulatto replied. "All about him in
every way. He was not buried at Port Royal at all. He intended to be,
and gave orders to that effect; but his servants had him buried quietly
elsewhere, on account of some dispute with the Governor of the time
being, about some paper which he desired to have placed in his coffin." "Where, where?" Cecil Mitford gasped out eagerly, clutching at this
fresh straw with all the anxiety of a drowning man. "At Spanish Town," the stranger answered calmly. "I know his grave there
well to the present day. If you are interested in Jamaican antiquities,
and would like to come over and see it, I shall be happy to show you the
tomb. That is my name." And he handed Cecil Mitford his card, with all
the courteous dignity of a born gentleman. Cecil took the card and read the name on it: "The Hon. Charles Barclay,
Leigh Caymanas, Spanish Town." How his heart bounded again that minute! Proof was accumulating on proof, and luck on luck! After all, he had
tracked down John Cann's grave; and the paper was really there, buried
in his coffin. He took the handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his
damp brow with a feeling of unspeakable relief. Ethel was saved, and
they might still enjoy John Cann's treasure. Mr. Barclay sat down beside him on the stone slab, and began talking
over all he knew about John Cann's life and actions. Cecil affected to
be interested in all he said, though really he could think of one thing
only: the treasure, the treasure, the treasure. But he managed also to
let Mr. Barclay see how much he too knew about the old buccaneer: and
Mr. Barclay, who was a simple-minded learned enthusiast for all that
concerned the antiquities of his native island, was so won over by this
display of local knowledge on the part of a stranger and an Englishman,
that he ended by inviting Cecil over to his house at Spanish Town, to
stop as long as he was able. Cecil gladly accepted the invitation, and
that very afternoon, with a beating heart, he took his place in the
lumbering train that carried him over to the final goal of his Jamaican
expedition. V.

In a corner of the Cathedral graveyard at Spanish Town, overhung by a
big spreading mango tree, and thickly covered by prickly scrub of agave
and cactus, the white-haired old mulatto gentleman led Cecil Mitford up
to a water-worn and weathered stone, on which a few crumbling letters
alone were still visible. Cecil kneeled down on the bare ground,
regardless of the sharp cactus spines that stung and tore his flesh, and
began clearing the moss and lichen away from the neglected monument. Yes, his host was right! right, right, right, indubitably. The first two
letters were IO, then a blank where others were obliterated, and then
came ANN. That stood clearly for IOHN CANN. And below he could slowly
make out the words, "Born at ... vey Tra ... Devon...." with an
illegible date, "Died at P ... Royal, May 12, 1669." Oh, great heavens,
yes. John Cann's grave! John Cann's grave! John Cann's grave! Beyond
any shadow or suspicion of mistake, John Cann and his precious secret
lay buried below that mouldering tombstone. That very evening Cecil Mitford sought out and found the Spanish Town
gravedigger. He was a solemn-looking middle-aged black man, with a keen
smart face, not the wrong sort of man, Cecil Mitford felt sure, for such
a job as the one he contemplated. Cecil didn't beat about the bush or
temporise with him in any way. He went straight to the point, and asked
the man outright whether he would undertake to open John Cann's grave,
and find a paper that was hidden in the coffin. The gravedigger stared
at him, and answered slowly, "I don't like de job, sah; I don't like de
job. Perhaps Massa John Cann's ghost, him come and trouble me for dat: I
don't going to do it. What you gib me, sah; how much you gib me?" Cecil opened his purse and took out of it ten gold sovereigns. "I will
give you that," he said, "if you can get me the paper out of John Cann's
coffin." The negro's eyes glistened, but he answered carelessly, "I don't tink I
can do it. I don't want to open grabe by night, and if I open him by
day, de magistrates dem will hab me up for desecration ob interment. But
I can do dis for you, sah.