"That will do; place the cigars upon the table and then you can go."
The speaker was Lord Throgmorten, a man of about thirty-six years of age, rather stout, with reddish hair and whiskers and cold, steel-gray eyes. He had just returned from a yachting cruise, upon which he had started upon his succession to the title about eighteen months before.
The scene was his lordship's chambers in the Albany, and the time the night of the 22nd of July, 1893.
Besides the speaker and the well-trained servant, who, in obedience to the order just given, occupied himself in fetching the silver cigar box from its accustomed place upon the sideboard, lighting the wax taper which stood by its side and placing them in front of his master, there were present two other persons. The man on his host's right near the fireplace, wearing spectacles and with the careworn look upon his features, was Mr. Percival Phelps, who had been his lordship's guest upon their recent cruise. He was a genial, dapper little man with inordinate vanity, and a slight stammer, when excited; with no income to speak of, save his stipend as a permanent clerk in the —— Office, a position that, his host said, "suited him down to the ground."
The man facing him, and looking towards the window, though younger than either of the other two, was already coming into prominent notice and making a fair income as sub-editor of that popular paper "The Telescope."
When the servant had left the room, the young man proceeded to address his host in measured tones.
"Since I received your letter, I have been on tenter hooks to hear the story of this wonderful discovery. You wrote me only a bare line from Southampton on the 12th to say that you had had a pleasant trip, during which you had chanced on a most extraordinary find; and that you particularly wanted me to dine with you to-night and hear about it. Well, now the man's gone, you can fire off your intelligence. What is it: coins, fossils, bones, or buried treasure?" And the editor, refilling his glass with port, which he knew by experience was particularly good, settled himself in his chair in a less constrained attitude, and prepared to listen to his host's narration.
Lord Throgmorten's reply was to rise from the table and with Mr. Phelps' aid, to bring from the further end of the room a box—covered with a cloth—whose weight, judging from the efforts required to lift it, was considerable.
"There," said his lordship, reseating himself, "that is the discovery, and that," pointing to Mr. Phelps who, like his host, panting from his exertions, had resumed his seat, "is the discoverer."
"The s-s-story first. Tell the story," said that gentleman, stammering in his excitement, while Lord Throgmorten prepared to remove the cover. The latter acceded to the suggestion, and began as follows, addressing his remarks to the editor, while Phelps sat by, giving confirmatory nods by way of emphasis, when occasion seemed to call for it.
"You are aware that, last February twelvemonth, Phelps and myself started for Australia in my steam yacht the Osprey, for the purpose of visiting my property out there. With our voyage out my story has nothing to do; it was only when we had turned our nose homewards and on the 17th June that our adventure began. On that night we were sailing—not steaming, mind, because there was a fair wind and we wished to save our coal.
"This was the position of affairs at midnight when Phelps and I retired to our cabins. At five a.m. I was roused from my sleep by a commotion on deck and the cry of 'Land Ahead,' followed by the order 'Hard a port.' I dashed on deck, on my way jostling against Phelps, who, like myself, had been awakened by the disturbance. On reaching it, we saw, rising out of the mist on our port beam, the rocky coast of an island; we made for the side and gazed over. To our horror, it seemed that we were almost grazing the rocks of a reef over which the sea was breaking. Slowly, ah! how slowly it seemed to us—all anxiously watching the line of surf which marked the treacherous rocks beneath—we passed them. A few minutes later we were hove to in deep water, the danger past; though, to this moment, it is a marvel to me how we escaped the rocks. I hailed Captain Soames, who was on the bridge, and asked him to lay down our position as well as his dead reckoning would permit, and, so soon as he had done so, to join me in the saloon with the chart.
"Then Phelps and I went below, where, presently, the skipper came to us. He unrolled the chart and placed his finger on a small cross, which we were able to distinguish by the light of the lamp. 'That, gentlemen,' he said, 'is our exact position marked upon a chart corrected to the most recent survey, and bought new, as your honors are doubtless aware, for the purposes of this trip. I beg your honors to notice that, by that chart, we ought to be in deep water hundreds of miles from any land. I trust, therefore, that you will exonerate me from blame for having so nearly run the ship aground.'
"Both Phelps and I assured him that we felt that our recent danger arose from no fault in navigation, but was an accident which no one could possibly have foreseen.
"Still the fact stared us in the face. The chart marked deep water, and yet we had, as nearly as possible, been wrecked upon an island that, according to the hydrographers, had no existence. When the truth dawned upon us, at first we both sat speechless, the skipper alone standing and looking from one to the other of us, as puzzled as ourselves. For fully half a minute we stared at one another, the unspoken question simmering in our brain, 'Whence comes this island?' the lamplight shining upon our faces, and the dawning sunlight playing through the open port hole and making ever shifting shadow patterns upon the cabin floor.
