“MANY WRECKS ABOUT HERE?”

“Yes, sir, that there be—uncommon many.”

The first speaker was Sexton Blake, the famous detective, who was resting after his exertions in the elucidation of the Menpes Street Mystery. He was staying at the quiet little fishing village of Swatley Cove, and, as was his habit, was passing the evening fishing from a boat, his sole companion a weather-beaten old sailor. It was a dark, sultry night in August. Great banks of cloud obscured the moon, which ever and anon shot out from behind them, and turned the leaden waters into a sheet of shimmering silver. Not a breath stirred a ripple on the sea, and as the old fisherman paused on his oars, no sound broke the stillness save the lapping of the water against the bows of the moving boat.

“Ah, indeed!” said the detective, leaning back to enjoy a cigarette. “What’s the cause of that?”

“Nobody can’t say what’s the cause,” replied the boatman, waxing mysterious. “All we knows is that within the last fortnight there’s bin three ships gone to the bottom, in sight of land, without a breath o’ wind stirrin’. They’ve just gone down, and not a soul saved. Maybe it’s the ‘Lamp of Death.’”

“And what is the ‘Lamp of Death’?” asked Blake, growing interested.

“Nobody knows what it is, sir. Thank my lucky stars, I ain’t never seed it, and pray heaven I never may! There ain’t nobody sees it and lives. But they do say that on a dark, calm night, such as this be, you may see a light comin’ up from the bottom of the sea like. That’s the light from the Lamp of Death, and when that light shines there’s a wreck, sure enough.”

“That’s curious,” said Blake. “Hallo! What’s that?” he added suddenly.

Far away in the gloom a black object was gliding silently o’er on the surface of the sea.

The old fisherman shaded his eyes with his hands, and peered into the blackness.

“It’s a boat at last,” he said, as the moon revealed a heavily-laden open boat. “But they’re up to no good—their oars are muffled.”

Nearer and nearer it came without a sound. Blake and his companion marked the steady spring of the rowers’ backs as they drove their craft through the water with long, powerful strokes. On they came, nearer and nearer still, and then shot past with never a sound and never a word—past, and on into the darkness again, until they were lost to sight in the distant gloom.

The old fisherman gave a sigh of relief as they vanished.

“What are they doing?” asked the detective.

“Dunno, sir,” replied his companion. “Let’s be getting back.”

The old man’s feelings had evidently been worked upon by the narration of his strange superstitions.

“What’s that?” suddenly exclaimed Blake a few minutes later, pointing out to sea, where, on the surface was seen a large circle of light, just such a light as would be caused by a giant bull’s-eye throwing up its rays from the bed of the ocean.

“Oh, merciful heavens!” was all the response he obtained.

“What is it?” persisted the detective.

“Oh, lor’! it’s the light of the Lamp of Death, sure enough!” wailed the terror-stricken old man.

Just then the moon ran out and revealed, close to the strange circle of light, the mysterious boat, its occupants all standing up, silhouetted black against the moonlit sky. They never moved, but stood there stock still—seven dusky figures, exaggerated by the light background.

Then the moon was hid again from sight; the circle of light on the water had disappeared.

The old fisherman sat with his face buried in his hands, moaning piteously.

“Come, come,” said Blake reassuringly; “let us see what—”

But he stopped short in wonderment and surprise.

There, out to sea, just where the circle of light had been, suddenly appeared what looked like a large open doorway, apparently standing upon the surface of the sea. From it streamed a flood of brilliant bluish light, in which figures were distinctly visible, moving to and fro.

The old fisherman turned to see the cause of Blake’s surprise, and then, with a sighing moan, sank to the bottom of the boat.

“We’re done for!” he cried. “We’re as good as if we was snug in Davy Jones’s locker. Oh, lor’! oh, lor’! my poor missus! Why ever did I put out on such an unholy night? And a Friday, too!” And he whimpered helplessly.

“What can it be?’ asked Blake.

But no reply could be got, save a strange medley of prayers and blasphemies.

In another moment the apparition was gone; and Blake, taking the oars, turned the boat’s head to where it had just been.

Wildly, but in vain, the terrified old sailor implored him to desist, and to return whilst there was yet time.

In a few minutes they had reached the spot, and at the same instant the moon shone out in full splendour, making the night as light as day.

Not a trace could be seen of the strange light, nor of any cause for it. The mysterious boat had disappeared, with not a sign to tell what had become of it. Like a phantom of the night had it come, and like a phantom, vanished, as completely as though it had suddenly melted into air.

“Strange!” muttered Blake. “What can it all mean?

“What’s that?” shrieked the old fisherman, springing to his feet.

They had struck something hard, like a sunken rock.

“It’s all over!” cried the terrified old man; and, but for the detective’s restraining hands, he would have leapt bodily into the deep, calling loudly on Providence to end his misery.

“Be calm—do!” said Blake testily, and proceeded to investigate the cause of the boatman’s alarm. He found that they had run against a water-logged boat, right way up!

“This must be that black boat,” he said. “Poor fellows! they evidently capsized through standing up like that. And yet it is odd that, if there was a mishap, there should be no traces of it about—no caps or hats floating near the spot. And the boat is right way up, too, with all the oars neatly laid up and floating in their proper position. It can’t have been an accident. But what has become of the crew?”

“If I was you, sir,” said the old boatman, “I’d get back as fast as you can, and not say a word about this here boat.”

“And why, pray?”

“’Cos why?” ’Cos this is the fourth time as a party ’as gone out late in the evening in a boat and disappeared. There’s never bin any bodies found, and the boats have always bin washed ashore, right way up, with the oars all shipshape, and a round hole drilled in the bottom. That’s why.”

“Then I shall certainly tow this one back, and see if the same be true of it. There is evidently something amiss.” And Sexton Blake determinedly suited the action to the word.

As he did so, he noticed for the first time that a strange circular swell was eddying round the spot, in startling contrast to the motionless water at a little distance. Gradually the swell subsided.

On reaching the shore, Blake found that the boat they had towed in answered in every detail to the particulars the old man had given of the others.

“Singular,” he soliloquised, as he made his way to his temporary home—“very, very singular! Three small boats—and to-night a fourth—hired and purposely water-logged. No trace of any catastrophe in any of the cases. Three ships mysteriously sunk! And on each occasion the Lamp of Death is seen. What does it mean? It is a mystery, and must be solved!”