“No need to worry where to dig, Father!” he shouted. “Here it is--plain enough!” Under the centre tree was a cairn of loose stones, more than half buried under the detritus of many years, it is true, but evidently the work of men’s hands. “That’s it, sure!” cried the old man. “First time you’ve seen this place, Pauline?” he queried, with a touch of grim cynicism. “Of course!” she replied. “What do you mean, Father?--and yet--” she hesitated, looking around her--“yet I do have a strange sort of feeling as though I had been here before. But I can’t have! It’s absurd!” Mother and daughter sat down under the shade of the trees whilst we three set to work to open the cairn. I was as excited as they by this time, and I helped with a will. The old man, wielding his pick with the skill of an ex-miner, loosened the stones on the surface. I rolled away the big ones, and Geoffrey shovelled away the smaller stuff. At the end of an hour we had made a pretty deep excavation. We then took it in turns to work with pick and shovel in the hole, from which we threw up the stones. Suddenly Geoffrey uttered an exclamation. “We’re on something!--What’s that, doctor?” He passed me up a long bone. “That’s the tibia of a man,” I replied. “I expect you’ll find the rest of him there.” “Sure thing!” he said. “Here he is!” He cleared away one or two large lumps of rock and revealed the grinning skeleton of a man. “Hallo!” he added, as he bent down to it, “what’s this?” A long thin stiletto was lying loosely between the fleshless ribs of the skeleton. The old man snatched it from him as he plucked it out. “And by all that’s holy!” he cried, “it’s got her name on it! Look!” I took it from him. The dagger was of antique pattern, its steel rusted and corroded but still resilient enough to make it a dangerous weapon, and on the hilt, still legible, roughly inlaid in silver like the amateur work of a sailorman, was the name--_Lucia!_ “I guess she murdered him with that!” said the old man, grimly, glancing from the stiletto to the skeleton grinning up at us from the hole where it had so long lain undisturbed. He turned toward where his daughter sat in the shade of the trees. “Here, Pauline!” he called to her. “Come and see--your friend the pirate and the knife that killed him!” The girl jumped up and ran across to us, all excitement. “How wonderful!” she said. “It’s like a dream come true!” At the time, excited as we all were, I did not notice the strangeness of that spontaneous phrase. She stood upon the edge of the excavation and took the stiletto with eager curiosity from her father. She held it in both hands, breast-high, the point toward her, to read the name upon the hilt. “Lucia!” she cried, with a strange look toward us, as though dimly and uncertainly recalling some terrible experience. “Lucia!” She repeated the name with a peculiar, slow intonation--an intonation of puzzled half-remembrance.