“I am not excessively busy at the present moment,” said Pereira; “so, as we seem to have finished eating, you might commence your discourse.” “Won’t you go and sit in the verandah to talk over your business?” interposed Miss Pereira. “I will bring your wine and see you comfortably settled before I go.” “I was hoping,” said I, “to number you among my audience, Miss Pereira. If you will stay, I can promise you some amusement, for my scheme is of the most wildly original kind.” “Oh, if the matter is not confidential, I should like to stay, especially if you are going to be amusing. Besides, I am really bursting with curiosity.” “Then I will go and get my documents,” I replied, and with this I retired to fetch from my portmanteau the journal of Captain Barnabas Hogg. When I returned, a paper lantern was swinging from the roof of the verandah, and a small hurricane lamp, for me to read by, stood on the table. Three Madeira chairs had been brought out from the room, and as my host and his daughter had already taken their seats with an air of expectation, I took possession of the empty chair and unfolded my project. “You may remember,” said I, addressing my host, “a conversation we had one evening soon after I came here, on the subject of the wealth of the native kings, in which you told me of certain traditions relating to a great fetish hoard near the source of the River Tano.” “I remember,” replied Pereira. “You may remember also how on a certain Sunday at Anyáko we met an old woman leading her blind son.” “I recollect it perfectly.” “Well, my story and my project are both connected with that tradition and that meeting.” Pereira made no comment on this statement beyond a barely perceptible lift of his eyebrows. I then went on to give a detailed account of my discovery of the ancient desk at Adena, and the finding of the old ship-master’s journal; and as I proceeded I could see that the curiosity of my auditors became more and more acute, and their attention more close; and when, at the close of my narration, I produced the aged volume and placed it in Pereira’s hands, the old man turned over its musty leaves with the keenest interest and enjoyment. “It’s a most curious and interesting find,” said he, at last, handing the volume to his daughter, “but I don’t quite see its connection with our blind friend nor with your plans for the future.” “Of course you do not,” I replied, “but when Miss Pereira has examined the book sufficiently I will read you the riddle.” Miss Pereira at once handed the journal back to me, and opening it at the now familiar page, I read to them Captain Hogg’s account of the Portuguese mulatto and his strange adventures. “What a marvellous and terrible story!” exclaimed Miss Pereira, as I finished and passed the open book to my host. “It reads like some weird legend of adventure in the under-world. It isn’t possible that it can be true.”