There were no drawers inside, but in place of them a flat copper box which stood upright in the cavity and fitted it exactly. The green, encrusted condition of this box seemed to indicate that it was not often taken out, and when I drew it forth and tried to open it, the close-fitting lid was jammed to so tightly that I had to prise it open with my knife, when I found that it had an air-tight flange like the lid of a snuff box. Inside the box, and exactly fitting it, was a small folio volume bound in parchment. This I supposed to be Olympio’s book of accounts, but I nevertheless shook it out of its case and turned back the cover, when I perceived a pale and faded inscription on the fly leaf in an odd, crabbed handwriting, but yet adorned with several expert flourishes. This was the inscription: “The Journall of Barnabas Hogg, Master of the ship _Mermaid_, of Bristol City. 1641-16--” The second date was not filled in, and I surmised that the journal and its writer had together come to an untimely end in the roaring surf of Adáffia beach. This was rendered more probable by the fact that the book had remained in its hiding-place, for, had the Captain survived he would presumably have taken his journal with him: a view which received confirmation when I turned up the last entry, which was near the end of the volume, and read: “16 June (1643). We are still at anchor off Adáffia, but shall not remain here since there seemeth to be little trade with this wild and turbulent people who have brought us but a few elephant’s teeth (and those very small and poor) and some teeth of river horses. Moreover the sudden storms of this season of the year do make this roadstead most perilous for ships to anchor in.” That was the end of the journal. Doubtless on the day following, the very danger that the Captain had foreseen overtook the ship, and as for poor Master Barnabas himself and his hearts of oak, they all probably perished in the surf or fell victims to the “wild and turbulent” people of the coast villages. There was something very solemn in this unexpected meeting with the quaint and musty little volume. On that June evening, more than two centuries ago, the final entry had been written and the book put away by the methodical Master of the good ship _Mermaid_. And there it had in all probability remained, unseen by human eye, its very existence forgotten, while generation after generation was born and passed away, while dynasties rose, flourished and decayed. As I turned over its yellow leaves covered with faded writing I felt like one holding converse with the dead (as indeed I was), and so fell into a train of meditation from which I was at length aroused by the little American clock in the sitting-room banging out with blatant modernity the hour of midnight. So I rose, knocked out my pipe, replaced and closed up the secret cupboard, and, having deposited the journal in my dispatch box, turned into bed.