Other subscriptions came pouring in, and it was not long before
everybody save Shylock had put his name down for something. This
some one of the more quick-witted of the spirits soon observed, and,
with reckless disregard of the feelings of the Merchant of Venice,
began to call, "Shylock! Shylock! How much?"

The Merchant tried to leave the pier, but his path was blocked.

"Subscribe, subscribe!" was the cry. "How much?"

"Order, gentlemen, order!" said Sir Walter, rising and holding a
bottle aloft. "A black person by the name of Friday, a valet of our
friend Mr. Crusoe, has just handed me this bottle, which he picked up
ten minutes ago on the bank of the river a few miles distant. It
contains a bit of paper, and may perhaps give us a clew based upon
something more substantial than even the wonderful theories of our
new brother Holmes."

A deathly silence followed the chairman's words, as Sir Walter drew a
corkscrew from his pocket and opened the bottle. He extracted the
paper, and, as he had surmised, it proved to be a message from the
missing vessel. His face brightening with a smile of relief, Sir
Walter read, aloud:

"Have just emerged into the Atlantic Club in hands of Kidd and forty
ruffians. One hundred and eighty-three ladies on board. Headed for
the Azores. Send aid at once. All well except Xanthippe, who is
seasick in the billiard-room. (Signed) Portia."