"'Shoot him!' yelled Stevens, as he pulled out his revolver and fired once, twice, and then flung it with all his might at the vision. In the effort he overbalanced the boat, and all I can remember is that I was swimming for dear life, and being borne down with frightful rapidity through that awful light. I saw something, which might have been Hake Stevens, struggling for a moment on the water; but, Stevens or not, it sank again almost immediately, and some one laughed too as this happened. "And I think," said Burgess, "that's about all. I never saw Hake Stevens again, and I don't want ever to see Brito's jewels any more." "How did you get out?" "By absolute luck. I don't very well remember now; and By Jove! here comes the breeze." Even as he spoke, a cool puff of wind fanned us into life. THE DEVIL'S MANUSCRIPT CHAPTER I. THE BLACK PACKET. "M. De Bac? De Bac? I do not know the name." "Gentleman says he knows you, sir, and has called on urgent business." There was no answer, and John Brown, the ruined publisher, looked about him in a dazed manner. He knew he was ruined; to-morrow the world would know it also, and then--beggary stared him in the face, and infamy too. For this the world would not care. Brown was not a great man in "the trade," and his name in the _Gazette_ would not attract notice; but his name, as he stood in the felon's dock, and the ugly history a cross-examination might disclose would probably arouse a fleeting interest, and then the world would go on with a pitiless shrug of its shoulders. What does it matter to the moving wave of humanity if one little drop of spray from its crest is blown into nothing by the wind? Not a jot. But it was a terrible business for the drop of spray, otherwise John Brown, publisher. He was at his best not a good-looking man, rather mean-looking than otherwise, with a thin, angular face, eyes as shifty as a jackal's, and shoulders shaped like a champagne-bottle. As the shadow of coming ruin darkened over him, he seemed to shrink and look meaner than ever. He had almost forgotten the presence of his clerk. He could think of nothing but the morrow, when Simmonds' voice again broke the stillness. "Shall I say you will see him, sir?" The question cut sharply into the silence, and brought Brown to himself. He had half a mind to say "No." In the face of the coming to-morrow, business, urgent or otherwise, was nothing to him. Yet, after all, there could be no harm done in receiving the man. It would, at any rate, be a distraction, and, lifting his head, Brown answered: "Yes, I will see him, Simmonds." Simmonds went out, closing the green baize door behind him. There was a delay of a moment, and M. De Bac entered--a tall, thin figure, bearing an oblong parcel, packed in shiny, black paper, and sealed with flame-coloured wax.