A watch-glass. Three brass buttons (one bearing the initials P. J., and all coated with verdigris). A pair of nut-crackers. Several leaves of a devotional work entitled "Where shall I be To-morrow? or, Thoughts for Mariners." A key. An oily rag. The cap of a telescope. An empty bottle, labelled, and bearing in faded ink: "Poison. For Dick Collins, when his leg is bad." On the whole this was not encouraging. Mr. Fogo was turning to abandon the search, when something upon the cabin-floor caught his eye. He stooped and picked it up. It was a lady's glove. Mr. Fogo turned it over in his hand. It was a dainty six-buttoned glove, of a light tan colour, and showed scarcely a trace of wear. "This is very odd," muttered he; "I can hardly fancy a smuggler wearing this, still less a ghost." With his thoughts still running on the woman he had seen upon the deck, he advanced to the packing-case again, and was beginning absently to kick aside the heap of shavings and cotton-wool, when his foot encountered some hard object. He bent down and drew it forth. It was a small tin case or canister, of oblong shape, and measured some four inches by two. It was perhaps two inches in depth. On the cover was a label, and on the label the legend-- "WAPSHOTTS' PATENT COMPRESSED TEA." "_Beware of Imitations._" The lid was lightly soldered, and the canister remarkably heavy. Mr. Fogo pulled out his pocket-knife, sat down on the edge of the packing-case, and began to open his prize. He had broken one blade in trying to unfasten the solder, and was beginning with the second, when it occurred to him to cut through the soft metal of the canister. In a few minutes he had worked a considerable hole in the lid. "Very curious tea this," remarked Mr. Fogo. "It's a deal more like putty--or Californian honey." The light in the cabin was faint; he determined to carry the canister on deck and examine it in the sunlight. He picked his way up the ladder, and was just emerging from the hatch, when the sudden glare of the sun caused him to blink and then sneeze. He caught his toe on the last step, stumbled, dropped his prize, and fell forward on to the deck. The canister struck the step, jolted twice, plunged to the bottom with a smart thud-- There was a flash of jagged flame, a loud roar, a heave and crash of riven timbers--and the old hull had passed from decay to annihilation. This would seem a convenient moment for regulating our watches, which have gained considerably, and putting back the hands to half-past ten, at which hour the bells of St. Symphorian's, Troy, began to summon the town to worship. A few minutes later the town sallied forth in pairs and decorous excitement. It was dying to see Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys' costume, and marched churchwards in haste. But to-day it halted for the most part at the church-porch, and went no further.