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The two Smiths, father and son, sat sullenly in their launch but came aboard meekly enough when commanded.

The Aurora herself we hauled off and made fast to our stern.

A solid iron chest of Indian workmanship stood upon the deck.

This, there could be no question, was the same that had contained the ill-omened treasure of the Sholtos.

There was no key, but it was of considerable weight, so we transferred it carefully to our own little cabin.

As we steamed slowly upstream again, we flashed our searchlight in every direction, but there was no sign of the Islander.

Somewhere in the dark ooze at the bottom of the Thames lie the bones of that strange visitor to our shores.

"See here," said Holmes, pointing to the wooden hatchway.

"We were hardly quick enough with our pistols;" There, sure enough, just behind where we had been standing, stuck one of those murderous darts which we knew so well.

It must have whizzed between us at the instant we fired.

Holmes smiled at it and shrugged his shoulders in his easy fashion, but I confess that it turned me sick to think of the horrible death which had passed so close to us that night.

Our captive sat in the cabin opposite to the iron box which he had done so much and waited so long to gain.

He was a sunburned reckless-eyed fellow, with a network of lines and wrinkles all over his mahogany features, which told of a hard, open-air life.

There was a singular prominence about his bearded chin which marked a man who was not to be easily turned from his purpose.

His age may have been fifty or thereabouts, for his black, curly hair was thickly shot with gray.

His face in repose was not an unpleasing one, though his heavy brows and aggressive chin gave him, as I had lately seen, a terrible expression when moved to anger.

He sat now with his handcuffed hands upon his lap, and his head sunk upon his breast, while he looked with his keen, twinkling eyes at the box which had been the cause of his ill-doings.

It seemed to me that there was more sorrow than anger in his rigid and contained countenance.

Once he looked up at me with a gleam of something like humour in his eyes.

"Well, Jonathan Small," said Holmes, lighting a cigar, "I am sorry that it has come to this."

"And so am I, sir," he answered frankly.

"I don't believe that I can swing over the job.

I give you my word on the book that I never raised hand against Mr. Sholto.

It was that little hell-hound; Tonga, who shot one of his cursed darts into him.

Chapter 11. The Great Agra Treasure

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