Heaven knows what we might have become in that tiny plantation, for I was sick of life, and the mosquitos and flying ants, and the chattering parroquets, the grim gallinazo, and the quatre, or native bed--a wooden frame and canvas; but one day at Kingston I met a man, one Cassandro Biatt, who had an obsession for adventure, and he spoke to me privately.

He said he knew me from people's talk, and would I listen to him?
What was there to do?
He was a clean-cut rogue, if ever there was one, but a rogue of parts, as he proved; and I lent an ear.
Now, what think you was his story?
Well, but this--that off the coast of Haiti, there was a ship which had been sunk with every man on board, and with the ship was treasure without counting-jewels belonging once to a Spaniard of high place, who was taking them to Paris.

His box had been kept in the captain's cabin, and it could be found, no doubt, and brought to the surface.

Even if that were not possible, there was plenty of gold on the ship, and every piece of it was good money.

There had been searching for the ship, but none had found it; but he, Cassandro Biatt, had sure knowledge, got from an obi-man, of the place where it lay.