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“Mine—mine ... and I must leave it all—must leave
it all—soon! Oh, so soon! God!”[Page 7.]

The Lake Mystery

BY
MARVIN DANA
Author of
The Woman of Orchids, A Puritan Witch,
Within the Law, etc.

FRONTISPIECE BY
J. ALLEN ST. JOHN

CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1923

Copyright
Marvin Dana
1922-1923
Published September, 1923
Copyrighted in Great Britain
Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

THE LAKE MYSTERY

PROLOGUE
THE MISER

THE Dresden clock on the mantel struck twelve in soft, slow, golden notes. As the gentle echoes died away, Horace Abernethey, sitting huddled in a morris chair before the fire of logs, stirred feebly. Presently, he sat erect, moving clumsily, with the laboriousness of senility. But there was nothing of the aged in the glances of his keen, dark eyes, which shone forth brightly from out the pallid parchment of his face. His intent gaze darted first toward the clock, to verify the hour of which the gong had given warning; it went next to the closed window on the right of the fireplace, over which the shades had not been drawn. The unsheltered panes were spangled with raindrops, and, as he watched, a new gust beat its tattoo on the glass. The old man drew down the tip of his thin, beaklike nose in a curious movement of disgust, then stroked petulantly the white cascade of beard that flowed to his bosom.

“Curse such weather!” He snarled, in a voice querulous and shrill with years. He stood up with sudden alertness, surprising after his first awkward slowness; a brisk gesture of the head threw back from his face the luxuriant white curls of hair. “But, in spite of it, I must go again, and so make an end of the job—else—death might take me unawares.”

Abernethey glanced aimlessly about the long, low-ceiled room, now lighted only by the glow from the fire. After a little, he advanced to the center, where a concert-grand piano dominated the scene. In a moment more, he had lighted the tall lamp that stood at hand. A sheet of music in manuscript was lying on the rack. He seized this, and scanned it eagerly, muttering the while.

“Curious it should work out so,” he exclaimed, at last; “curious, and infernally clever, too!” He seated himself before the instrument, still holding communion with his thoughts. “Yes, it will do—capitally—and it has the spirit of the thing. It chants the curse.”

Suddenly, as he ceased speaking, the old man lifted his arms in a quick, graceful movement. The long, clawlike fingers, supple still, fell vehemently on the keys, in a clamor of melancholy music. There was only a single strain of melody—that written on the page before him; but he played it again and again, as if obsessed by its weird rhythm, played it blatantly, tenderly, with reluctant slowness, with masterful swiftness. And, as he went on and on, he abandoned the simplicity of the written score. In its stead, he multiplied harmonies, superimposed innumerable variations. The musical rapture revealed the decrepit old man as a virtuoso. The treatment of the theme showed him to be at once the scholar and the creature of vivid emotional imagination, while the physical interpretation of the dreaming that drove him on displayed a technique astonishing in one so burdened with years.

But ever, throughout the wildest extravagances of his fancy’s flight, there was no failure of that first morbid rhythm, of that first monotonous melody in minor set on the sheet before him.

This was the score on which he built the ordered sequence of his improvisations:

[[Listen]]

The player ended with a harsh clangor from the keys, and whirled about on the stool to stare intently toward the wall opposite the fireplace. Now, his pallid face in the glimpse that showed above the beard, was faintly flushed from the bodily strain of playing. But the fire burning in the dark eyes proved that the emotion within still maintained its vigor undiminished. Springing up, he drew his tall, thin form to its full height, and stood thus motionless for a long minute, gazing fixedly at the wall before him. Then, again with the swift movement of the head by which the white curls were thrown back from his brow, he strode forward, and came to a stand facing the naked wainscoting of the wall.

In the long, barren room, devoid of other ornament, this paneling was of itself sufficient to command attention. Beyond a few scattered chairs, a solitary table with its lamp, the irons of the fireplace, a cabinet for music, the piano and the high lamp standing beside it, there was nothing in the place, not even so much as draperies to mask the ugliness of the window-shades. Such scarcity of furnishing was emphasized by the size of the apartment, which was fifty feet in length and half as wide. Doubtless, the occupant had preferred the space thus free from aught that might in any wise hamper the resonance of the music. Be that as it may, the ornateness of the wainscoting was made conspicuous, since only the piano offered another interest. Of black walnut, it ran to a height of at least seven feet out of the ten that measured the wall, and, extending around the four sides of the room, gave to the aspect of the place a quality of melancholy so extreme as to be almost funereal—an effect in no way lessened on closer observation, since the deep carving was merely a conventional labyrinth of scrolls.

The manner in which Abernethey scanned the wall opposite him was too intent to be explained by any ordinary concern with woodwork long familiar. Moreover, his eyes were glowing fiercely; the talonlike fingers writhed curiously where they hung at his sides; the shaggy white brows were drawn low; from time to time, the tip of the thin nose was thrust downward in the movement peculiar to him. It was plain that he was in the grip of profound feeling, though he stood mute before a stark space of wall.

The old man bestirred himself abruptly. His right arm was raised with swift grace; the dexterous fingers played for a moment silently, yet firmly, on the crowded traceries of the carving. A flurry of wind brought the rain clattering noisily against the window-panes, but the musician gave no heed; the clock rang softly from a single stroke of the gong, but his ears had no care for the hour. He was muttering to himself now, brokenly, despairingly, the while his fingers wandered over the intricate design of the paneling:

“Mine—mine ... and I must leave it all—must leave it all—soon! Oh, so soon! God! The torture of it ... mine—all mine! Ah!”

Without warning sound the panel on which his hand rested had swung outward, until it stood like a door, wide-open. An ejaculation of eagerness burst from Abernethey’s lips, as he peered within the opening thus revealed through the wall. A large plate of polished steel glimmered in the dim light that came from the lamp beside the piano. A figured knob in the center of this plate proclaimed the fact that here was a cunningly contrived safety-vault.

The old man’s arm again reached forth with that astonishing quickness which characterized his every movement. Now, the agile fingers seized the knob of the safe door, twirling it with practised certainty of touch. Presently, the methodical adjustment complete, he tugged briskly on the knob, and the door swung outward. An exclamation of delight burst from Abernethey’s lips; his form grew suddenly tense. With febrile haste, he put both hands to the lighter inner doors, and pulled them open. A small electric torch lay ready to hand just within, on which he seized. Immediately, its soft radiance revealed the whole interior of the recess.

The space was well filled with canvas bags, of the sort commonly used to contain specie. Their appearance there, thus hidden and protected, left no doubt of the fact that they were the old man’s chief treasure. For that matter, there was nothing else inside the vault, not even ledgers, or papers of any sort whatever. It was quite evident that Abernethey had no hesitation in trusting his other valuables to less-secret places of security. Here, he concealed with such elaborate precaution only actual coin. And now, secure from all observation at midnight in this remote region, where the isolation of time and place were intensified by the downpour of the tempest, the aged musician gave free rein to his consuming passion, stripped from his nature the last mask of hypocrisy, gloated and adored at beck of that devil who was his master.

Abernethey nimbly caught up two of the bags, and bore them to the table that stood against the wall to the right of the vault, where he set them down with a softness of movement which was like a caress in its tenderness. Then, he sank into a chair beside the table, and began untying the cord that held shut the mouth of one of the bags. It was only a matter of seconds until the sack gaped open—he paused now, to stare about the room with furtive, fearful eyes. His scrutiny was directed principally toward the windows: his lips were drawn in a snarl as he realized that the shades had not been pulled down. He sprang to his feet, and darted to the nearest, where he arranged the shade to his satisfaction, mumbling and mouthing the while. Afterward, he made a round of the room, very swiftly, yet using all care to render himself secure from observation by anyone without. A glance at the doors having shown him that all these were shut fast, he at last strode back to the table, where the money-bags awaited him. The chair was drawn close; into it, Abernethey sagged heavily, as if in sudden relaxation from the taut energy that had urged him on hitherto. For a half-minute, he sat crouched over the table in an attitude of utter weariness, almost of collapse. But abruptly, he aroused himself from the clutch of lethargy. Once again, he held himself upright; again, his eyes searched the room craftily, alight with emotional fires. Finally, his arms rose swiftly, swooped forward and downward, until the talonlike fingers closed on the bags, which he drew tight to his breast where it pressed against the table. In this posture, which was like an embrace, he remained moment after moment, tense, alert, movelessly alive in every fibre of him. Then, putting term to the rapturous pause the old man sighed faintly, as one who, with infinite reluctance, awakes from ecstasy. He sat rigid, and pushed the two bags a slight distance from the edge of the table. For another little interval, he stared at them, half-doubtfully, in the manner of one returning slowly to reality after the illusions of a dream. A second sigh was breathed from his lips, not blissful now, but weighted with bleak despair. Presently, he tossed his head impatiently, and began fumbling with the string of the second bag. This yielded speedily, as had that of the first. In another instant, he had poured forth the contents of the two sacks; on the table before him lay twin heaps of gold.

Afterward, for more than an hour, the miser gave full play to his vice. Before the smoldering fires of the metal, he worshiped devoutly, abjectly. His soul prostrated itself in adoration beneath the golden glory that he so loved and reverenced. At times, he plunged his fingers within the heaps, listening raptly to the clinking song of the coins as they were moved haphazard by the contact; at times, he sat dumb, crooning softly, as if these bits of metal had been sentient things to hark to his hymn of praise. Other vagaries were his, innumerable follies, nameless abasements before this, his most sacred shrine.

Of a sudden, Abernethey sprang to his feet. Leaving the glittering piles on the table, he hurried to the piano, where he seated himself with face turned toward the altar of his worship. The supple fingers touched the keys anew; the melancholy air which he had played before sounded once again. But now, it was rendered simply, without extremes of emotion on the part of its interpreter, without variations in its harmonic forms. Instead, the old man played it slowly and gently throughout, repeating it monotonously many times. The morbid rhythm stood forth ghastly in its naked, sordid truth. It came as a hopeless confession of despair, the ultimate fact in the vice that was his master.

Abernethey went back to the table, stacked coins until he had the measure of a bagful, and thus divided the gold, which was then returned to the sacks. Next, he brought forth other bags from the vault, until the table was covered. This done, he went out of the room, to reappear after a minute, wearing an old soft hat and a rain-coat with capacious pockets, in which he stored, one by one, the bags of gold.

“Two more trips will do it,” he muttered to himself, as he turned to close and lock the vault. “I must dictate that letter tonight.” Under the touch of his hand, the section of wainscoting swung back into its place. There was not even the suggestion of a crevice to hint of the hiding-place behind the carved wood; the miser turned, and went hastily from the room.

The Dresden clock on the mantel had just sounded the hour of four with its golden notes when Abernethey reentered. The water ran in a stream from his hat; all around him on the floor, as he came to a stand inside the door, drops from the rain-coat formed a growing pool. With a gesture of weariness, he cast off the hat, then freed himself from the coat, which he threw down on the floor with a carelessness which of itself was sufficient evidence that the treasure of gold was no longer there. He went forward to the fireplace, where he sank down into the morris chair, huddling without movement, as one exhausted. It was half an hour before he had rested enough for further exertion. Then, clumsily and with many groans, he stood up, and once more left the room. He returned soon with a phonograph and a box of rolls, which he set on the table. After he had arranged the machine, he began to dictate a letter into the receiver. His words came distinctly, swiftly, without ever any trace of hesitation. As soon as the first roll had been filled with the record, he paused to insert another, and then straightway continued with similar precision. When, at last, the miser made an end, he had used many rolls, and the first gleam of dawn was beating weakly on the drawn shades of the room.

CHAPTER I
ADVENTURERS’ PACT

SAXE TEMPLE regarded with pardonable pride the supper-table laid for four in the parlor of his bachelor apartment. Then, as a knock made known the first arrival, he went to the door, and opened it eagerly. At sight of the tall, soldier-like figure standing on the threshold, his face lighted.

“Roy Morton, by all that’s good!” he cried.

“Hello Saxe, old man,” came the answer, in a musical monotone surprisingly gentle from one so stalwart. “Got your letter, and here I am. Incidentally, I’m tickled to death over the idea of some real excitement. I haven’t had any since a jolly fight in Mexico with a detective, who thought I was an absconder from the States, and tried to hustle me across the border.” Morton thrust out a rather heavy chin, so that in a twinkling his face grew threatening, savage; his kindly blue eyes paled, the lids drew closer. “I had colored souvenirs of his earnestness scattered all over my anatomy for a fortnight. But I didn’t have to have a doctor to patch me up, and he did, so I was satisfied. In fact, I got the doctor for him as soon as he apologized for his mistake.” Morton chuckled at the memory. His face was again all amiability.

Saxe laughed. “You still wear a chip on your shoulder in order to entice somebody into a scrap,” he said.

“Nonsense!” Morton exclaimed, huffily. “You ought to know that I don’t want anything violent. I always try to steer clear of trouble. It’s only when something comes up that a man must resent for the sake of his self-respect that I ever resort to brute force. Why, I——”

Saxe ruthlessly interrupted:

“Oh, certainly, you’re a man of peace, all right! Only—ah, here’s one of them.”

Saxe sprang to his feet, and hurried to the door, on which an imperative knocking sounded. As he turned the knob, the newcomer pushed his way into the room unceremoniously, a man as tall as Morton, but whose six feet of height bulked much larger by reason of the massive build and large head, thatched shaggily with thick, iron-gray hair. The face showed rugged ugliness, emphasized by muddy skin. His voice was wheezy from climbing the stairs.

“Well, and what’s it all about? What and why? Filibustering? Abduction? Sunken treasure? Count me in on the scheming, strategy, conspiring, plotting. But leave me out when it comes to donning the diving-suit, or engaging in the merry sword-play at the head of the stairs, or any aviation. Well, well, it’s like old times to be together.” He had shaken hands with the two men while speaking, serenely disregarding their verbal greetings, for his huge voice boomed over theirs. “No cigarette,” he concluded, waving away the offered box, as he sank down beside Morton on the couch. “I prefer a man’s smoke.” He drew forth, prepared and lighted an especially fat and black cigar. “The doctor says I smoke too much,” he added, comfortably, after inhaling a startling volume of the smoke.

Saxe smiled unsympathetically.

“It’s eating so much and taking no exercise that makes you puffy.”

Billy Walker snorted indignantly.

“I only eat enough to keep this absurdly large carcass of mine properly stoked,” he declared. “Of course, I don’t take violent exercise. I want my strength for brain-work. You can’t use the same vital force in two ways. If I wanted to be intellectually foolish like you and Roy, why, I’d consume my energy in keeping hard as nails. I, however, prefer intelligence to biceps—where’s Dave?”

“That’s the answer,” Saxe exclaimed, as a knock again sounded.

A moment later, David Thwing, the third and last guest, was in the room. He was the only short member of the group, but he was broad across the shoulders, with a stocky form that promised unusual strength. He might have been good-looking, but for the fact that his nose had once been disastrously smashed and never rightly repaired. Its present outline was as choppy as the Channel seas in a gale. It gave to his face a suggestion of the prize-ring.

Now that the party was complete, Saxe bade his guests take their places at the table.

“No explanations till we’re done with the meal,” he announced, in answer to the questions of his friends.

It was only when the table had been cleared of all save decanters and glasses and smoking materials, that he at last stood up to address his friends. A certain formality in his manner arrested their attention, and they regarded him with a sudden increase of curiosity.

“It’s now six years since we left the university,” Saxe began. “In the last year, we made a boyish pact. We agreed to answer the call of anyone of us who became embarked in adventure of a sort to require the assistance from the others. So I have summoned you in accordance with the terms of our agreement; you see, I really have a sort of adventure to offer you, though perhaps you’ll think I’m a bit selfish in the matter, for the profit will be all mine. Roy, however, has made money enough so that he doesn’t need any more, and Billy always did have more than he could spend, with his foolish ideas of just learning things, instead of living them. Dave is reasonably poor, but, too, he’s reasonably honest, and so he’s better off without the temptations of great wealth. I’ve come to the conclusion, after careful reflection, that I’m the only one of the quartette who actually is in want of money. My tastes are luxurious, and, too, I have ambitious projects in the direction of operas that I wish to write. I can’t give myself to such serious work while I have to turn all my energies into musical pot-boilers to soothe the savage breast of the wolf at the door.”

“The metaphor is mixed,” Billy Walker grumbled. “The purpose of pot-boilers is to soothe the stomach, not the breast. But what could be expected of a composer essaying oratory?”

Saxe accepted the criticism without rancor.

“Anyhow, I’ll let that stand by way of introduction,” he continued. “The pith of the matter is this: I’ve had some money left to me, a tidy sum in fact.”

Instantly, there came a chorus of congratulations from his friends. But the host waved his hand for silence, while he shook his head lugubriously.

“I’m not exactly ready for congratulations yet,” he declared, when they had fallen silent again. “It’s true, I’ve had some money left to me, but the deuce of it is, I don’t know where the money is.”

Exclamations burst forth anew, eager questionings.

“The simplest way of explaining the whole affair,” Saxe went on, “is to make it known to you in the form in which it was made known to me:

“The morning of the day on which I wrote to you, I received a letter. That letter was the first warning I had of this possible adventure. Now, I’ll read the letter to you, and then you’ll have the same knowledge of the whole matter as I have. By way of preface, I need only say that the writer of the letter has since died, and I have been formally notified by his lawyer concerning the old man’s will, in exact accordance with the terms of the letter he wrote me.”

The young man took from his breast-pocket a typewritten letter, and proceeded to read it aloud. From the first word to the last, the auditors sat silent, almost without movement, save now and then for the relighting of cigar or cigarette.

The letter ran as follows:

Saxe Temple, Esq.,
New York City.
Dear Sir:

It will doubtless astonish you at the outset to receive a letter of this length from one who is a complete stranger to you. It will astonish you still more when you learn the contents of this communication. I shall, however, set forth the facts in such wise as may enable you to grasp them understandingly. For your opinion concerning them or me I care little. I am, in fact, making use of you as a sort of sop to conscience on finding myself face to face with death.

All that you need to know is this:

I am a musician. All the love of my life has been given to music—with two exceptions, of which I shall write later on in this letter. As to the music, I have loved it as an amateur, for I was of independent means with no need to mix in the sordid struggle for money. I have never written for production. I have been content for the most part merely to study, to apprehend as best I might the work of the masters. What I have myself composed has been of a wholly desultory sort, fragments of fragmentary ideas. I have fashioned now and then the motif of a theme. I have scientifically worked out by an application of mathematical laws, based on ratios of vibration, certain new things in the way of harmony. All these I have left to you unconditionally. I dare hope and believe that you will be able to make some use of the material. If you do so, pray spare yourself the pains of giving me any credit—if your honesty be over-nice—or worrying your conscience if you chance to be dishonest. I have no idea that I shall be messing around anywhere in your environment after I am once dead, and the world’s praise can be less than nothing to me after I have gone from earth. But because you are a musician and, as I have come to believe, an earnest one, I have decided to make you heir to my musical legacies certainly—to my money perhaps. I’ll explain the “perhaps” presently.

But first I must tell you of the love that rivaled my love for music. This was for your mother. On that account my thoughts have been directed to you with special force. On that account this letter to you and all this letter implies.

Your mother as a girl possessed a wonderful natural voice and, too, the soul of a musician. It so chanced that she and I were neighbors and we met often socially. I was only a few years older than she, and I was already skilled in music, for I had devoted myself to the study of it from childhood. I recognized the supreme worth of her voice at the first hearing. I fell in love with your mother then—as a man with a woman, yes—even more as a musician in love, with a glorious instrument of music. It soon became evident that while she liked me, she could not love me as a wife should love her husband. I realized the truth, and though I suffered as an emotional temperament must suffer in such case, I did not despair. The musician in me triumphed over the man for I rejoiced in the glorious gift that she would manifest to the world. So I merged my passion for the woman in the enthusiasm of the maestro for his pupil. I offered myself as her teacher and she accepted me in that capacity. For two years I taught her. Under my training, her method became perfect. Her soul, too, grew, so that she had sympathy and understanding.

Then, just when she was all prepared for her triumph and my own, she fell in love with your father. She married him. In spite of all my prayers, my reproaches, my supplications, she abandoned her career for love’s sake. Her husband was opposed to his wife’s appearing in public as a singer. She yielded to his wishes without remonstrance. I believe she was happy in her way because she loved your father sincerely, and she counted no sacrifice too great for love.

You, as a musician, can apprehend perhaps the suffering I underwent in consequence of this disappointment. It sickened me of my fellows—made me a recluse. It was in my life of retirement that I developed my third love—that of the miser for gold. I secretly transformed all my possessions into gold, which I kept in a secret safe here in my house. Oh, the hours of night during which I have worshiped before the shining heaps! But enough has been written at one time and another over the raptures of the miser, a rapture without justification in reason, yet more masterful than any other. I shall not weary you with explanation or excuse. The statement of the fact alone is sufficient.

Now at last I find myself the victim of a disease that must end my life course within a few days, perhaps hours. It becomes necessary then for me to dispose of my wealth. I am without relations with the exception of a distant cousin and her daughter, who are already well-to-do. To this daughter I have left my house here and the land that goes with it—a thousand acres—which has some value today and will have more very soon, as the region is being opened up.

For the bulk of my wealth, which as I have said is in gold, I have selected you as a possible heir, but you must do your part. I have thus chosen you because I dare hope that by it you may be helped in accomplishing something of worth in the art of music and so atone in some measure for the loss occasioned by your mother’s abandonment of her career. The condition which I have imposed on this legacy is merely to test you as to your perseverance and your intelligence. In the event of your failure, half of the money will go to the girl, and the other half to the founding of a musicians’ home.

After my death you will be notified by my lawyer, who has my will duly drawn in accordance with the conditions I here roughly explain. At once then, you will come to this place and here conduct a search for my treasure-chest, which contains three hundred thousand dollars in gold. If you discover this within a month from the day of my death, this treasure shall be yours absolutely. If you fail in the quest the seals of my description of the hiding-place, which has been deposited with my lawyer, will be opened and the treasure secured, to be divided between my young kinswoman, Margaret West, and the establishing and endowing of a home for disabled musicians.

Because you are the son of your mother whom I loved, and because you are a musician of promise, I have thus chosen you as my possible heir. If you are as acute as I think, you will easily discover the necessary clues to the hiding-place of the gold. In the hunt you have full liberty to use any means you wish, with the privilege of residing in the house here with your helpers—if you employ them—during the length of the time allowed you.

Yours truly,
Horace Abernethey.

As he finished the reading, Saxe folded the sheets, and replaced the letter in his pocket. Then, he sank back into his chair, and surveyed his friends quizzically.

“Well?” he demanded.

David Thwing beamed happily through the heavy lenses of his eyeglasses, as he spoke:

“And so you want us to go with you, and of course we will.” He gazed benignantly on his fellow guests, then opened his mouth, and trolled in a musical baritone, “A hunting we will go!” Roy swung into the measure with a nicety of accord in the tenor that told of old-time practice. Saxe added his bass, and the song rang out in an harmonious prophecy of success.

As the refrain ceased, Billy Walker expressed himself whimsically:

“This comes as a great relief to me,” he explained, grinning cheerfully. “I’m all tied up with commission for erudite essays I’ve promised to write. I’ve been unable to figure any way in which I could fulfill my obligations. Now, by cutting the whole thing, the difficulty will be removed. I shall simply disappear with you. Saxe, old boy, I thank you. When do we start?”

“And you, Dave?” the host questioned eagerly, though this friend had already given consent for the three.

“I haven’t a blessed thing to do,” was the contented answer. “Apart from the pleasant thrill incident to this questing for hidden treasure, your wish for my assistance gives me a new feeling of self-respect, due to the fact of having something in the nature of business to attend to. When do we start?”

Roy Morton nodded amiably, as Saxe turned in his direction.

“Of course,” he declared. “When do we start?”

“You’re trumps, all of you,” the host declared, gratefully. “I knew I could depend on you, but to have your assurance takes a weight off my mind all the same. I’d feel infernally helpless, alone on the job. With you chaps standing by, I know we’ll win out. As for starting, well, time is important—there’s a bit less than a month now left to us. I’ve looked up trains. There’s a good one that starts in the afternoon. I know it’s awfully short notice, but, if you could manage to make it tomorrow, why—” he halted doubtfully, to stare at his friends.

“Tomorrow it is!” boomed Billy Walker; and the others echoed agreement.

CHAPTER II
THE SECRETARY

IN THE performance of her secretarial duties, May Thurston duly drummed on her machine the remarkable letter to Saxe Temple, in which the old miser made known his intended disposition of a golden treasury. Because she possessed an excellent New England conscience, the girl maintained silence, despite the urgings of a feminine desire to share the secret. This reticence on her part was the more admirable inasmuch as, just at this time, her affections were becoming strongly engaged by a suitor.

Hartley Masters, the man in the case, was a civil engineer employed in the neighborhood with a survey for an electric road. On one occasion, he had stopped at Abernethey’s cottage for a glass of water from the well. The master of the house was absent at the time, but the secretary was present, and, by some chance, out of doors that pleasant May morning. Conventions seemed rather absurd in that remote region. The young engineer admired the charming face and slender form, and hastened to engage her in conversation. She responded without reluctance, rather with pleasure in this diversion from the monotony of her days. Afterward, a considerable intimacy developed between the two. May Thurston had much of her time free, and Masters contrived so to arrange his work as to take full advantage of her leisure. That his heart was touched seriously may be doubted, but his courtship lacked nothing in the evidences of intensity and sincerity. He made a deep impression on the girl, who was both ingenuous and tender. Masters was the first to whom she had given more than the most casual heed, and, almost at the outset, she found her affections engaged. She regarded him as astonishingly handsome—as, in truth, he was—in a melodramatic fashion of his own, with huge dark eyes, long-lashed and glowing, a sweep of black mustache, and thick, clustering hair, which was always artistically tousled. In fact, the whole appearance of the man was blatantly artistic, in the bohemian acceptation of the word, and he was scrupulous to wear on all occasions a loose bow of silk at his throat. He was tall, too, and broad enough, but there was too much slope to his shoulders, his neck was too long, his head bulked too large for harmony. His voice was agreeable, his manners were suave, quickened by a jauntiness, which was perhaps assumed to harmonize with the insouciant air of the cravat. May Thurston, who had read her Byron, thought of him as The Corsair, and her heart fluttered.

It is easily understood that the secretary’s keeping silence concerning her employer’s remarkable testamentary plans showed her the possessor of some strength of character, as well as a sense of honor. She even managed to keep her own counsel after Masters openly declared his love, and besought her to become his wife—at some vague time in the future, when he should have arrived at a position of independence. She yielded readily to his ardor, and had plighted troth, all a-tremble with maidenly confusion and womanly raptures. Then, a few days later, Abernethey died. She felt now that she was at liberty to reveal the circumstances of the will to her lover. As they strolled on the lake shore, the evening of the day after the miser’s death, May told the story, to which Masters listened with absorbed attention.

“Mad as a hatter!” he ejaculated, contemptuously, as the girl brought her narrative to a close. Yet, though his voice was mocking, there was manifest in his expression an eagerness that puzzled the girl.

She would not permit his comment to go unrebuked:

“No,” she declared firmly, “Mr. Abernethey was not mad. He was eccentric, of course—very! That was all, however. He wasn’t crazy—unless every miser is crazy. He had a sense of humor, though, and he didn’t quite know what to do with his money. So he finally worked out the scheme I’ve told you of.”

“Then, he really did it as a sort of joke,” Masters suggested eagerly.

“As much that as anything else,” May answered, and her tone was thoughtful. “There was sentiment on account of Saxe Temple’s mother and the old love-affair. And, of course, this young man’s interest in music made it seem like a good disposal of the money. But I have a suspicion, too, that Mr. Abernethey really enjoyed hiding the money—making it hard for anyone else to get hold of it, you know. That idea appealed to his miserly instincts, I think. How he hated to leave it! ‘No pockets in a shroud!’ I’ve heard him mutter a hundred times. It was horrible—and pitiful.”

“Yes, miserliness is an awful vice,” Masters agreed. His tone was perfunctory, although his inflections were energetic enough.

There fell a little silence between the lovers. Where they sat on the west shore, beneath the rampart of wooded hills, it was already deep dusk, but out on the open space of water shone a luminous purple light, shot over with rose and gold, a reflected sunset glow over the eastern mountains. May Thurston stared happily at the wide, dancing path over the water that led to the newly risen full moon, and she dreamed blissfully of the glory of life that was soon to come to her beside the man who had chosen her as his mate. Masters, on the contrary, while equally enthusiastic in his musings, was by no means sentimental, as he gazed unseeingly across the lake’s level, now wimpling daintily at touch of the slow breeze. The young engineer’s thoughts were, truth to tell, of a sort sordid, even avaricious, covetous; and, at last, after a period of profound reflection, he uttered his thought:

“May, dearest,” he said softly, with a tender cadence, “what a shame it is that that old miser didn’t think of us!”

The girl faced her companion with a movement of shocked surprise.

“Think of us!” she repeated, confusedly. “Whatever can you mean?”

Masters turned, and regarded May with intentness, a fond smile showing beneath the curve of his mustache. His voice, as he spoke now, was softer than usual:

“Why,” he said, “I was just thinking on the hardness of fate—sometimes. Here was this old man, with more money than he knew what to do with, and here are we without a penny. There was nothing money could do for him, except gratify a vice—the madness of the miser; and money could do everything for you and me, sweetheart. The thought of it made me say it was a shame the old man didn’t think of us!”

“Well, after all, we couldn’t expect him to,” the girl said placidly, with the sober sense characteristic of her. “Of course, it would have been nice to have his fortune, but we must be patient, Hartley.” She turned her face again to the east, and looked out into the deeper purples of the distance, beholding again fair visions of the happiness to come.

The man’s tones were somber, as he replied:

“I tell you, May, it seems to me like no man’s money.”

The girl aroused herself from dreaming, and for the second time regarded her lover with puzzled inquiry.

“What do you mean by that, Hartley?” she demanded.

“I mean,” came the deliberate answer, “that this hidden fortune of Abernethey’s doesn’t really belong to anyone at this moment.”

“Nonsense!” the secretary exclaimed briskly, confident as to the fact out of her stores of business experience. “The money belongs to the estate. By due course of law, it will go to Saxe Temple, if he fulfills the condition under which it has been left him. If he fails, it will go to the girl and the musicians’ home.” She smiled contentedly, pleasantly conscious of her own erudition, and looked out over the lake again, watching idly the frolicing dance of the swallows to the movement of the waves.

“On the contrary,” Masters continued argumentatively, “at this very moment, the ownership of that gold is problematical. Nobody exactly owns it, although theoretically the title to it is vested in the surrogate’s court, or whatever they call it in this wilderness. As a matter of strict fact, that gold has become hidden treasure. To be sure, the old man has left directions as to who shall have it if found, and who shall have it if it’s not found. But, suppose now, someone else were to find it—not Saxe Temple?” The girl uttered an ejaculation, and faced her lover with startled surprise, meeting the fire of his gaze bewilderedly. “Suppose I were to find it?”

May Thurston sprang to her feet, and regarded the speaker with an expression of sheer amazement, which swiftly changed to one of dismay. The softly-tinted rose of her cheeks flamed suddenly to scarlet; her luminous eyes, usually so gentle, sparkled dangerously. She stared fixedly at the man for a few seconds. At first, he encountered her gaze steadily enough, smiling. But, presently, under the accusation in her look, the smile passed from his lips, and his eyes fell. The girl continued to observe him indignantly for a few moments more. Then, at last, she spoke; and now there was more of sorrow than of anger in her voice:

“Hartley!”

The exclamation was a reproach, and as such the young man recognized it. He rose quickly, caught May’s hands in his, and spoke tenderly in justification of himself, his eyes again meeting hers boldly.

In the days that followed, Masters showed a wily patience. He recurred to the subject of the miser’s gold again and yet again. The girl’s reluctance slowly grew less, as she found herself unable to combat the ingenuities of his reasoning. Finally, she reached a point where she no longer opposed his wishes, although she still held to her own conviction as to the wrongfulness of that which he proposed. The man felt that he could trust to her neutrality, so reluctantly conceded. With this for the time being, he rested content.

CHAPTER III
THE ASSEMBLING

THE dwelling in the wilderness contained only two servants, a woman of fifty, who performed the duties of housekeeper and cook, and her husband, slightly older, who did the small amount of outdoor work required about the cottage, but, during the open weather, was chiefly concerned with the care of the two motor boats, which had been the miser’s single extravagance.

After the funeral, the lawyer of the deceased ordered Jake Dustin and his wife to remain at the cottage for the time being, to await the outcome of the bequest. May Thurston, also, was retained as the one person most conversant with Abernethey’s affairs. These arrangements made, the attorney returned to Boston, holding himself in readiness for another visit to the cottage at any time when his presence there might be required in connection with the inheritance. Masters, naturally enough, rejoiced in the situation thus created, which left him entire freedom in the prosecution of his illicit search for the treasure. He realized to the full that his best opportunity would be limited to the short interval before the arrival on the scene of others, who would inevitably regard his presence with surprise, if not with actual suspicion. For the moment, however, there was none to offer any hindrance. Jake was engaged in overhauling his engines within the boat-house, which was situated a full hundred yards from the cottage; he had neither eyes nor ears for the actions of Hartley Masters who, in his opinion, was merely “sparkin’ that Thurston gal mighty clus.” Mrs. Dustin, for her part, was absorbed, as always, in a relentless warfare against matter out of place, which she consistently loathed as dirt. As she invariably talked aloud to herself, she gave ample warning of her whereabouts at all times, and it was no difficult thing to evade her.

Yet, despite the advantages of his situation, Masters, to his chagrin, learned nothing concerning the treasure.

The young man’s failure was pleasing, rather than otherwise, to May Thurston, who, at intervals, kept alongside him in the quest, though always without affording him other assistance than the doubtful comfort of her presence. Despite the fact that his specious arguments had silenced her, she was by no means convinced as to the propriety of his undertaking. Her conscience still spoke clearly, even while she abandoned controversy with Masters for love’s sake.

A telegram from Mrs. West came to May, in which it was announced that the widow and her daughter, Margaret, would arrive at the lake on the day following. The lawyer had advised Mrs. West concerning the death of Abernethey and her daughter’s inheritance of this property, together with the possibility of another fortune, should Saxe Temple fail in his search for the secreted hoard of gold. On receiving the telegram, May was in a flutter of pleasureable excitement. Notwithstanding her devotion to Masters, the isolation of this life in the wilderness was a weariness to her spirit, and she joyously looked forward to the coming of the heiress, a girl presumably of about her own age, who might afford her that companionship she so craved.

Masters, on the other hand, was filled with an impotent rage against the promptitude of Mrs. West’s answer to the announcement of Abernethey’s death.

“The vultures flock to feed on the carcass,” the engineer sneered, with an angry tug at the flowing length of his mustache.

May’s lips set primly, as she stared at the handsome face of her lover with rather less than her usual admiration for his romantic air. It occurred to her active intelligence that Hartley was hardly the one to scorn those who came lawfully to claim their own, while he was unlawfully seeking the property of another with such feverish eagerness. But, with feminine wisdom, she held her peace, while Masters went on fuming futilely against fate. With the aid of time-tables, she calculated the exact hour at which Mrs. West’s arrival might be expected, since the message had neglected to state this, and then sought Jake, to whom she gave instructions that he should go down the lake in one of the motor-boats the next morning to meet the ten o’clock train, north-bound, at the station three miles away. When, that night, Masters, still grumbling, kissed her good night, her lips were passive, which had not been their wont.

Masters reappeared early the next morning, for he was aware that in a few hours his best opportunity to search would be past. He utterly ignored the fact that his engineering work was being neglected to an extent that must soon involve him in serious trouble with his employers. The possibility of wealth had suddenly come to dominate his thoughts, and it allowed no rivalry. He was pale, as if after a sleepless night, and his thatch of hair was tangled in a confusion real for once, not contrived with studied pains. His great, black eyes were glowing, as he encountered May at the cottage door. The girl sighed as she noted the haggard appearance of his face and the tenseness of his movements, usually so briskly graceful. A certain latent fierceness in his expression caused a thrill of apprehension in her heart. She was shocked that he could enter thus whole-souledly into a nefarious project for the sake of gain.

“Where’s the old woman?” Masters questioned curtly, after a scant phrase of greeting.

“In the kitchen,” May answered.

“I must hurry,” the engineer continued, alertly. “But, anyhow, I have almost four hours clear. They can’t get here before eleven, I guess.”

“If the train’s on time, they should get here about half-past ten,” May corrected. There was a note of warning in her voice. “Don’t let them find you—” she broke off, ashamed to finish her thought aloud.

Masters laughed shortly.

“No fear! I’ll watch out; but hold them back as much as you can,” he bade her. Without more ado, he entered the house.

She heard him go quickly into the music-room, shutting the door behind him. For a moment, she rested motionless, irresolute, her face troubled. Then, with a gesture of annoyance, she turned away, and went toward the waiting launch.

The north-bound train arrived hardly a minute behind its schedule. May, waiting eagerly on the station platform, scrutinized the few passengers as they clambered down from the day-coaches. Then, her attention was caught by the activities of a colored porter at the vestibule steps of the Pullman. Beside him, on the cinder path, were three valises of heavy leather, somewhat battered, but of undeniable dignity. As the man adjusted the portable step beside the track, two women appeared above him on the platform of the car. May had no doubt as to their identity. She noted the simple elegance of Mrs. West’s traveling suit, the modish air of the daughter’s. She observed, too, the radiant loveliness of the girl’s face. A subtle premonition of sorrow obsessed her, as she stared half-resentfully at the beauty of Margaret West, elusively revealed from within a mesh of gray veil. She fought against the mood, and went forward to greet the strangers.

The manner of the two travelers was so cordial that the secretary quickly forgot her presentiment. Mrs. West proved to be a handsome, though rather delicate, woman, of perhaps fifty years—in voice and manner, and in nature as well, a true gentlewoman of a type now somewhat out of fashion. As May had already learned from her late employer, this lady had, throughout her life, enjoyed ample means, though not great wealth. The daughter, Margaret, resembled the mother, but in her slender form was the grace of youth.

“There’s no doubt that it’s still a real wilderness hereabouts,” Margaret declared, after the first greetings had been exchanged. “I thought it might have changed, since our visit ten years ago.”

“And it’s still all wilderness for the way we have yet to go in the motor-boat,” May answered, smiling. “Here is Jake—Mr. Dustin, you know. He’ll carry your valises to the landing.” She indicated the embarrassed boatman, who was hovering doubtfully near. With attention thus thrust upon him, he grinned sheepishly, then turned to the luggage.

“Chris will help him,” Mrs. West said.

May looked in the direction of the speaker’s nod, and started in astonishment. In her absorption with the two women, she had observed neither the coming nor the presence of this man. Now, she regarded him curiously. Evidently, from his appearance, as well as from Mrs. West’s words, he was a servant, and May guessed that he must be as well an old and highly esteemed family retainer, since he thus made one of the party on this trip. He was a short man, rather absurdly fat, though not in the least heavy of movement, or wheezy of breath. But he had a general roundness, of a sort almost infantile, incongruous with perfect baldness. His tiny black eyes twinkled benignantly. A somewhat suggestive redness of the skin made the caricature effect of a Bacchic Cupid. For the rest, he was neatly dressed in black, and he smiled genially on May, and touched his hat decorously, at the reference to himself, with a respectful, “Yes, Miss.” Then, he stooped alertly to the luggage, seized a bag in either hand, and waited expectantly for the more sluggish Jake to point the way.

May had wholly forgotten her first impression long before the cottage landing was reached. She found Mrs. West kindly and interested, while Margaret displayed a democratic friendliness that was inexpressibly grateful to the lonely girl. But, at the last, all her apprehensions came crowding back. It was at the moment when they emerged from the boat-house, and started toward the cottage.

“Why, who is that?” Mrs. West asked, with a note of curiosity in her voice.

May looked up, to see Hartley Masters, as he stepped briskly out from the front door of the house. At sight of the party on the shore, he halted abruptly, in seeming confusion; then, after an instant of indecision, he swung sharply to the right, into a path that ran along the lake to the south.

“Oh, it’s Mr. Masters,” May answered, a bit falteringly. “He’s an engineer at work near here—he calls—sometimes.”

Some stress in the speaker’s voice caught the attention of Margaret. She regarded the troubled face of the secretary intently for a moment; then, she stared speculatively after the tall figure of the engineer, as it passed swiftly into the concealment of the forest.

CHAPTER IV
EVE OF BATTLE

MASTERS came suddenly on May Thurston that same afternoon, as she chanced to be alone on the cottage porch. When he appeared so swiftly out of the wood, which was thick behind the house, the girl realized that he must have been lying in wait for this opportunity to meet her unobserved. The stealthiness of the act revolted her anew, and the disagreeable impression was in no wise relieved by the engineer’s conversation or manner.

“Nothing—I found nothing at all!” he declared, curtly. His large eyes were glowing with anger. “I can’t understand it.” His tone was full of rebellion against the injustice of fate.

“But—” May began. Her voice was hesitating, timid.

Masters went on stormily, disregarding her.

“I mustn’t give up though—just because they’ve come.” He nodded toward the cottage. “You must introduce me, at once. Then, get them outside, to look about—and I’ll have another try at the gold.”

The girl was dismayed by his persistence. She wished to point out the danger of discovery, but the engineer would listen to no protests, and, in the end, his inflexible will beat down her resistance.

So, presently, Masters was duly introduced to Mrs. West and her daughter. His manner was now all suavity. He devoted himself to making a good impression, and in this he succeeded, for he was in fact usually attractive to women, though not to men, who regarded him with latent suspicion, or open hostility, according to their various natures. In this instance, his handsome face, graceful, frank manner and lively chat diverted and pleased the mother, while the more susceptible daughter found herself near to blushing under the earnest regard of a stranger so romantic of appearance and so respectfully, yet obviously, an admirer of her own charms. Indeed, though Masters was very discreet, his manner somehow caused the trouble in May’s heart to swell, for now it was leavened with jealousy. Yet, there was nothing overt, to which she might take exception. It was, rather, an intuition that warned her. But, when she again found herself alone with her lover, she was confronted with offense in his first words:

“We must keep our engagement secret from them.”

Though May had had no thought of any present publicity for her romance, this peremptory command came with a shock.

“Why?” she demanded. “What do you mean, Hartley?”

Masters became fluently plausible. His seeming candor disarmed criticism.

“Margaret West is a pretty girl,” he explained, smiling, at last, “and she is evidently aware of the fact. If she thinks I’m dangling, so to speak—a victim to her charms—she and her mother won’t wonder any at my hanging around the place a good deal—and it’s Miss West’s place now, you know. It wouldn’t do for me to make myself too much at home here just as your fiancé, she might be jealous.”

His smile over this none too delicate pleasantry was so caressing, his voice was so tender, he was so tall, so stalwart in picturesque fashion, so good to look on altogether, that May quite forgot her first instinct of indignation. After all, doubtless, he was right.

“But you won’t let her think you really serious?” she stipulated.

Masters’ face instantly grew grave; his voice took on a dignity almost rebuking.

“No, little girl,” he said, gently; “that wouldn’t be fair to you, or to her, or to me. But we’ll keep our secret for a time.”

And to this, albeit reluctantly, May consented. That reluctance must have become open revolt, could she have known the inner workings of her lover’s crafty and unscrupulous brain. For the fact of the matter was that the engineer had no sooner set eyes on Margaret West than new, daring plots began to shape themselves in his imagination. His heart thrilled at sight of her; his interest deepened second by second. He experienced, indeed, an attraction strange, dominant. The emotion was the more impressive inasmuch as it was totally unlike that with which May Thurston had inspired him. He had admired the secretary in rather a placid fashion; he had enjoyed her dainty appearance, he had been agreeably entertained by her lively intelligence; most of all, he had received flattering unction to his vanity from the ease of his triumph over her heart. The case of Margaret was radically different. Even in the first interview with this girl, he found himself subject to a spell hitherto unknown in his experience of women. Being by no means a fool, he guessed that here in truth was one actually to possess his love.

That realization worked no sort of regeneration in the moral nature of the man. On the contrary, since he was essentially selfish, it served only to spur him on toward bold speculations as to all possible gains for himself. Since he knew the terms of the Abernethey will, a new scheme flashed on him within five minutes of his introduction to Margaret. If he should be unable to find the hidden treasure for himself, he would strive his utmost to prevent the success of Saxe Temple in the quest, since failure on the heir’s part would mean Margaret’s inheritance of one half the gold. By this means, although he would not secure the full amount of riches, he would at least become possessor of a moiety—for he would marry Margaret West. He felt no pang of regret for May Thurston, whom he planned to betray so basely. His sole concern was for his own advantage: the securing of the woman and the money that he desired fiercely. That he would succeed in this preposterous ambition, he did not doubt for a moment, confident of the favor with which the softer sex usually regarded him. He took the first step in his conscienceless scheme when he gazed with respectful admiration into the eyes of Margaret West; he took the second when he charged May Thurston to keep secret the troth he had plighted her.

On the morning after the coming of Mrs. West and Margaret, the secretary received a telegram from Saxe Temple, with the announcement that he and his friends would reach the lake that same afternoon. So, there now remained for the engineer less than one day of liberty in which to prosecute the hunt for the treasure. For all his audacity, Masters knew that he could not dare to carry on the search during the interval even, except with utmost caution, lest he arouse the suspicions of the widow or her daughter. He had passed most of the time since their coming in racking his brain with vain conjectures as to a possible clue, with the hope of making actual investigation at a more propitious time. Now, however, the telegram warned him that his period was at an end. The presence of the heir and his associates would effectually halt the engineer’s operations, and he realized the fact with bitterness of spirit. Thereafter, he must perforce do what he might skulkingly, ever cautious to avoid any least guess by anyone as to his purpose.

“But I’ll keep an eye out,” he confided to May, sullenly. “If they find a hint anywhere, I’ll beat them to the goal, after all, you’ll see!”

She shrank at his words—something that was fast coming to be a habit with her.

“But Mr. Temple has the right to it, you know,” she expostulated, weakly.

“If he gets it!” Masters retorted with a sneer that lifted slightly the luxurious mustache. “Only, I’ll see that he doesn’t. And, anyhow, I believe that he must be a pretty namby-pamby sort of chap. Fancy his bringing a band of helpers!”

“Mr. Abernethey particularly said that he might do so,” May reminded her lover.

“It seems a bit cowardly, just the same,” Masters maintained. “I’ll win out yet. I tell you, May, the fellow is handicapped: he fears failure.”

Saxe Temple arrived at the foot of the lake in mid-afternoon, and with him came Roy Morton, Billy Walker and David Thwing. Jake was awaiting the incoming train, his weather-beaten face aglow with anticipation. The terms of the will having become known to him, he had developed what might be called a sporting interest in the issue. After years of monotony, excitement had jumped into his life. Therefore, he now advanced toward the four young men with suit-cases, who had descended from the Pullman, and bobbed his head energetically, his clean-shaven face wrinkled in a smile.

“Mr. Temple and party, I ca’c’late?” he remarked inquiringly, looking from one to another.

“I am Mr. Temple,” said the heir, with an answering smile, as he stepped forward. He indicated his companions with a gesture. “These are my friends, come to help me on a bit of business I have in the neighborhood. You know about it?”

Jake beamed joyously.

“Well, now, I’ve got quite some suspicionings, as it were,” he admitted, cautiously. “I hope you’ve left everybody well to hum?”

“Oh, I believe some in the city are complaining,” Saxe replied, with apparent seriousness; “but the general health is about the average.”

“Jest so!” Jake showed himself gratified. “Well, I’ll lead ye over to the motor-boat.”

Billy Walker groaned stertorously.

“And we’re not there even yet!” he exclaimed, aghast.

“Oh, putty nigh,” Jake made assurance; “only a matter o’ three mile on the lake. We’ll git thar in a jiffy, in the Shirtso.”

“The what?” Saxe questioned.

“That’s the ornery name old man Abernethey give a perfec’ly good boat,” Jake replied, complainingly. “He said as how it meant kind o’ lively.”

“The name must be Scherzo,” Saxe explained to the unmusical and bewildered Billy Walker; “the motor-boat, you know.”

But Billy was not appeased. He kept at Jake’s side, as the party moved toward the landing, a furlong to the east from the station, and expressed his sentiments vehemently, though not lucidly, so far as the boatman was concerned.

“I’m given to understand,” he said severely to the puzzled Jake, “that your craft is not merely a plain, slow-going, safe-and-sane-Fourth launch, but, on the contrary, one of those cantankerous, speed-maniacal contraptions that scoots in diabolical and parabolical curves, and squirts water all over the passengers. If so, I think I’ll walk—though I’m not fond of walking.”

Jake seized eagerly on the one intelligible phrase in Billy Walker’s bombast.

“Nary squirt!” he declared, with emphasis. “Old man Abernethey, he was ailin’ jest like you be, and I learned to nuss the Shirtso keerful—mighty keerful, yes, siree!”

The others, who had overheard, laughed impudently at this naïve reference to the invalidism of their friend, whose physical inertia was equal to his mental energy.

At sight of the motor-boat, Roy Morton gave critical attention, scanning it with the supercilious manner of one versed in the mysteries, as, indeed, he was. Unbidden, he ensconced himself at the engines, in the seat with Jake. Soon, however, his coldly inquiring expression softened to radiant satisfaction, as he noted the smoothness of the start, the delicate adjustment from speed to speed, the rhythm of the perfectly tuned cylinders. Of a sudden, as he turned to stare at the wizened face of the old man at his side, Roy’s eyes grew gently luminous; a smile that was tender curved the lips above the belligerent chin. He knew that Jake loved his engines, knew perfectly that the old man fairly doted on them, cherished them even as a lover his mistress. Because of the sympathy that he, too, had with such things, Roy respected the boatman mightily, began then and there to grow fond of the brown and shriveled face.

Billy Walker, for his part, after the first few moments of suspense, became convinced that his anticipations of disaster were little likely to be realized in fact, and thereafter he gave himself over to delighted contemplation of the wooded shores, which on either side sloped gracefully to the water’s edge. David Thwing, too, gazed about on the newly budded beauty of the wilderness with a content made keen by over-long sojourning in the places builded by men. It was only Saxe Temple himself, alone in the stern chair, who looked around with eyes that just then recked naught of the scenic loveliness, despite the appeal in such vistas to one of his beauty-loving temperament. But his whole interest, now, was centered on the quest that had brought him to this remote region. His roving glance was searching all the stretches of lake and forest wonderingly, hopefully, fearfully. Here was the place in which he must win or lose a fortune, according to the decree of the old man’s whimsy. The desire of his dearest dreams surged in him, the challenge of ambition, the ideals of art. This wealth, once achieved, would give freedom to work according to his loftiest aspirations. A sudden fierce resolve burned in him. He would succeed, notwithstanding all difficulties in the path. Fate had given him opportunity: he would wrest from it victory as well. His face set itself sternly in lines of strength ... and, then, without any warning, the Scherzo swung around a densely wooded point of the shore that had seemed almost to bar the narrow channel, through which they had been passing thus far. Now, just before them lay broad reaches of placid water, a mile in width there at hand, much wider in the distance beyond. Low mountains loomed undulant afar, whence the descending forests ran to a shore that wound hither and yon in innumerable inlets, coves and bays, broken often by cliffs.

Yet, even now, Saxe Temple gave no heed to the loveliness of the spectacle. Instead, his whole care was fixed on an uncouth, rambling structure that blotched a clearing visible along the west shore, a mile away. It was the only dwelling to be seen anywhere, as far as eye could reach. The seeker had no doubt that now, at last, he had his first sight of Abernethey’s cottage—that spot in which his cunning must meet—and master—the cunning of a dead man, who had made grim jest with the gold he loved.

CHAPTER V
THE SEARCH BEGINS

AN UNWONTED activity prevailed in the miser’s cottage. The presence of Saxe Temple and his companions brought into the isolated dwelling a varied and bustling atmosphere, which, at times, came near confusion. The one member of the party who permitted naught to disturb his tranquillity was Billy Walker, and that because of a chronic aversion to every form of physical exertion. He contented himself with holding a sort of informal court on the porch, sitting at ease with his massive frame sprawled in a commodious wicker chair. Mrs. West remained with him much of the time, while Margaret by turns joined them, or moved about here and there as an interested observer of the other three men, who were already busily searching the house.

On occasion, Margaret and May Thurston wandered away together in long strolls by the lake shore, or over the hills through the forest. By the circumstances of such companionship, a considerable degree of intimacy was soon established between the two girls, which was inexpressibly comforting to the secretary. She would have delighted to tell this new friend of the engagement that existed between herself and the engineer, but she had passed her word not to do so, and it never occurred to her as possible that she should break it. At times, Masters joined the girls in their rambles, but that avaricious gentleman, though eager to press his suit with Margaret could not often bear to absent himself from the scene of operations that had to do with the treasure. So, for the most part, he either joined the group on the porch, or gave himself over to loitering hidden in the woods, at a point a few hundred yards to the south, where a thick screen of undergrowth effectually offered a barrier against observation from the cottage. By such espionage, he was sure to be instantly advised concerning any discovery of a clue, as it would create excitement among those on the piazza. He would have preferred to remain constantly among the searchers, but this was patently impossible. Masters was by no means lacking in shrewdness, however great his shortcomings in the way of respect for meum et tuum, and he was both sensitive and sensible enough to know that his company was not especially agreeable to Temple and his friends in their exploration of the house.

It was, in truth, rather curious to note the various opinions held in reference to the engineer by the four men engaged in seeking Abernethey’s treasure. Masters had been introduced to them by May on the morning after their arrival at the cottage, and had shown himself as friendly as possible. But, in accordance with the usual effect he had on men, the impression created by him on each of the four was distinctly unpleasant. Saxe Temple felt an intuitive dislike, which he was at no pains to explain. Billy Walker regarded the engineer with a mingling of amusement and disdain, ill concealed, and he did not scruple afterward to describe the visitor as a peculiarly obnoxious romantic pirate, with a flamboyant veneer of the Quartier Latin. But he refused to take the fellow with much seriousness. In this respect, he differed from Roy Morton, who made it a rule to be uniformly suspicious of all things and all persons, and lived up to this rule with finical fidelity. He immediately characterized the engineer as a completely base and designing person, one of whom all decent and honest men might well beware. He proved his contentions quite to his own satisfaction by physiognomy, by phrenology, by chiromancy, by the sixth sense and by the fourth dimension. David Thwing, who was ordinarily a kindly soul, made some small effort to combat the severity of Roy’s strictures, but the philanthropic attempt failed dismally of appreciation—which result troubled David not at all, since his heart was not in the task.

Ensued a week of feverish activity on the part of Saxe and his friends, in which Billy Walker was as busy as any, although his toil was exclusively mental, while his body remained in its customary lethargic condition. By day and by night, he devoted himself to examination of the problem that confronted his friend, and by day and by night the other three carried out his every suggestion. Unfortunately, however, for Saxe’s hopes of inheritance, their first hurried search of the cottage resulted in naught save weariness and dismay. Of anything in the nature of a clue, they found no least trace.

Billy Walker delivered the final decree in a council held by the four, after dinner on the seventh day. It had so chanced that the friends were alone together in the chief room of the cottage, which was the music-room.

“I’ve addled my wits in vain,” Billy Walker confessed, dolefully. “Until there shall have been an accumulation of new intellectual energy on my part, I shall be able to offer you no theory as to the actual hiding-place so ingeniously selected by the late lamented Mr. Abernethey—to whose ashes, peace! While I am thus recuperating, however, you, my children, shall not be idle—oh, by no manner of means. On the contrary, you shall be very busy, indeed, after the method prescribed by inexorable logic.”

“I’m beginning to think that a little luck just now would help more than a lot of logic,” Saxe declared, gloomily.

“Listen to the oracle, anyhow,” David Thwing urged, in his always kindly voice. “You see,” he went on whimsically, “Billy is a specialist in thinking: he doesn’t do anything except think. So, we must respect his thinking. Otherwise, we could not respect our friend at all.” David’s big, protruding eyes, magnified by the heavy lenses of his eyeglasses, beamed benignantly on his three companions.

The one thus dubiously lauded grunted disdainfully.

“Panegyrics apart,” he resumed, in his roughly rumbling tones, “there appears at this time but one course of procedure. To wit: Tomorrow morning, you must start on an exhaustive search of the whole house. Hitherto, you have made only a superficial examination. This has failed miserably. Now, the scrutiny must be made microscopic.”

There could be no gainsaying the utterance. As the speaker had declared, it was the command of the inevitable logic presented by the situation. The hearers gave grumbling assent to the wisdom of the suggestion—with the exception of Roy Morton, who, curled lazily in the depths of the morris chair, was staring vacantly at the elaborate carving of the wainscoting, and smoking an especially fat Egyptian cigarette. Now, he suddenly sat upright, and his gaze was turned on his companions, who had looked up at his abrupt movement. Roy’s eyes were hard; his chin was thrust forward, in the fashion characteristic of him when the spirit of combat flared high, which, to tell the truth, was rather often. He spoke with apparent seriousness, but Thwing, who had been through some adventures of a violent sort in his company, noted that a significant excess of amiability in his tones, which was always to be heard on critical occasions, was now wanting.

“There’s only one simple and sure way to success,” Roy declared authoritatively. “We must burgle.”

There were ejaculations of astonishment from his curious hearers.

“It’s this way,” he explained blandly, fixing his steel-blue eyes grimly on the wondering Billy Walker. “We must rifle the lawyer’s safe. Of course, the lawyer whom Abernethey employed has exact instructions as to how to come on the treasure. All we have to do, then, is to break into his office, carrying an oxy-acetylene blow-pipe, cut open the safe, find the secret instructions, copy them off, and afterward duly retrieve the gold at our leisure; besides,” he concluded, with great complacency, “I know a first-class safe-blower, to help us on the job. I did him a favor once. He’ll be glad to do me a kindness, in turn.”

A chorus of protests came from Saxe and Billy, to which, at last, with much apparent reluctance, Roy yielded, and definitely, though sulkily, withdrew his ingenious predatory plan. But David, the while, chuckled contentedly, for he was apt at a jest—and, too, he had known Roy more closely than had the other two.

Since the working schedule had been thus happily determined on the side of law and order, the friends gave themselves over to an interval of social relaxation for the remainder of the evening, during which period, at the suggestion of David, the subject of the treasure was taboo. Roy, who was fond of music, and had himself once possessed no mean measure of skill on the violoncello, now besought Saxe to try the piano, for hitherto their whole attention had been given to the business in hand, to the exclusion of all else. David, also, who doted on music, though without any technical training, added his entreaties. Billy Walker, who esteemed music about as highly as a cat does water, was complacent enough not to protest, which was the utmost that might be expected of him under the circumstances. Saxe went to the piano very willingly, for he was in a mood of nervous tension that craved the emotional relaxation of harmony.

Saxe played with a good degree of excellence in his technique, although he was far from being such a master of the instrument as had been the dead owner. But the essential charm of the younger man’s interpretation lay in the delicate truth of his sympathy. His intelligent sensitiveness seemed, indeed, catholic in its scope. Whether he toyed daintily with a graceful appoggiatura from Chopin, or crashed an astonishing dissonance from Strauss, he equally felt and revealed the emotion that had been in the composer’s soul. Hardly had he begun, when Mrs. West entered from the porch, and after her came Margaret. Presently, May made her appearance, with Masters at her side. Only Jake and his wife, in the kitchen, remained unattracted. They had already heard from their late master sufficient music to last them a lifetime. The audience was sympathetic enough to encourage the player, and Saxe remained at the piano for a long time, to the satisfaction of all his hearers—even that of Billy Walker, who was shamelessly dozing.

Finally, the musician’s attention, during a pause, was attracted to a stack of music, which was lying on top of a cabinet, at the right of the piano. He rose, and, going to it, began glancing over the sheets. His eyes lighted with admiration as he noted the various compositions in the collection. In this examination of the music, he realized, as he had not done hitherto, the virtuosity of that dead miser who had made him the possible heir to wealth. For here was naught save the most worthy in the world of musical art. There was not a single number of the many assembled that was not a masterpiece of its kind. In its entirety, the series presented the very highest forms of musical expression, the supreme achievement, both intellectual and emotional, in the art. For the first time, Saxe felt a gust of tenderness toward the lonely old man, for the sake of their brotherhood in a great love. And, then, at the very bottom of the heap, Saxe came on a single sheet, which drew his particular attention.

The page showed a few measures written in manuscript. This fact alone was sufficient to make the sheet distinctive in the collection, inasmuch as it was solitary of its sort. Every other composition was from editions by the best publishers. With his newly-aroused interest in Abernethey, it befell that Saxe was pleased thus to come on a composition which, he made sure, must have been from the pen of Abernethey himself. Yet, as he scanned the few bars, the young man experienced a feeling of vivid disappointment, for the work was by no possibility of a kind to compel particular admiration; so, at least, it seemed to him just then. With a sense of disillusionment concerning the quality of the dead miser’s genius, Saxe carried the sheet of music to the piano, where he placed it on the rack, then began to play. As the first chord sounded, May Thurston, seated in a chair near the door, made a movement of surprise. Afterward, as she rested quietly in her place, there lay on her face a look of melancholy that was very near dejection.

The music that Saxe played was this:

[[Listen]]

Thus, Saxe Temple played the few simple phrases, over which the old miser had lingered so long one desolate night. But, now, a vast difference appeared in the manner with which the music was sped. Abernethey had rendered the composition with astonishing intensity of emotion. He had interpreted the harsh measures with exquisite, though melancholy, tenderness; he had clanged them forth with the spirit of frantic appeal, with hot passion in the uncouth numbers, with crass, savage abandonment—again, with the superimposing of mighty harmonies, vast, massive, dignified. Now, the genius was gone from the reading. Saxe Temple felt no least degree of sympathy for this crude, unpleasant fragment. On the contrary, the piece affected him only disagreeably. To his musical sense, this creation by the miser was peculiarly offensive. Yet, through some subliminal channel, the stark sequence of the rhythm laid thrall on him, so that he ran over the score not once, but many times. Nevertheless, he always set the music forth nakedly, unadorned by any graces of variety in the interpretation, undraped by ingenious Harmonies. He played merely the written notes, played them with precision—reluctantly; and, when finally, he had made an end, he still sat on at the piano, staring toward the written page, as one vaguely troubled by a mystery.

It was May Thurston who broke the little interval of silence that followed after the music ended:

“I’ve heard that before, Mr. Temple,” she said; “many, many times.”

Saxe whirled on the piano stool to face the girl.

“Yes,” he said, and there was a note of bewilderment in his voice; “I should imagine so. As it is in manuscript, it was probably composed by Mr. Abernethey himself. But I must say that I’m greatly disappointed in it. I can’t discover any particular merit in it. You know, he left me all his manuscripts. I’ve had no time to look at them, however, as they only arrived the day we left New York. So, I was especially interested in this, to learn something of him, and this teaches me nothing at all concerning him, or, if it does—” He broke off, unwilling to voice his candid judgment of the manuscript’s merits. He turned to Roy, who lounged in a window seat, smoking the inevitable cigarette. “What did you think of it?” he demanded.

“Perfectly ghastly!” came the sententious answer. “I was wondering what on earth you were up to—and hoping for the best. Yes, ghastly!”

May Thurston laughed, but there was little merriment in her notes.

“That’s exactly what it is—ghastly!” She shuddered slightly, and glanced across the room toward Margaret, as if in quest of sympathy. “It is ghastly. It got on my nerves frightfully. Mr. Abernethey was forever playing it, along at the last—and I used to enjoy his playing so, too! I love music, and he was simply wonderful. I’ve heard most of the great players, and it seems to me that he was as good as any of them. His technique was magnificent. He told me once that, since many years, he had had an absolute mastery of the instrument physically. He had only to think and to feel the spirit of the music. He said that the sympathetic response of his body was wholly automatic.”

“That is the ideal, of course,” Saxe agreed, with a sigh. “I only wish that I had attained to it myself! Perhaps, he weakened a bit at the last—when he did this, you know?” He looked at May inquiringly, as he made the suggestion.

But the girl shook her head, resolutely.

“No!” she said, with an air of finality. “Up to the very day of his death, there was no breaking down of Mr. Abernethey’s mind. Yet, he was always playing that piece at the last. Only, he played it in a thousand ways—never twice alike—and always ghastly!” Again the girl shuddered slightly.

“That’s curious,” Saxe said. He swung about on the piano-stool, and sat staring somberly at the written page.

Billy Walker innocently cleared the atmosphere. He sat erect, rubbing his eyes brazenly.

“Now, I liked that piece,” he declared, genially. “It’s got some swing to it, some go—yes, rather! Best thing you’ve played, if anybody asks me.”

“Nobody did,” Roy retorted, sourly.

As a matter of fact, Billy Walker, though totally tone-deaf, had been granted a considerable capacity for the enjoyment of rhythm. The composition that distressed May Thurston by its ghastliness had cheered him with the steady drumming of its chords; the law of compensation works in curious ways.

CHAPTER VI
THE SIXTH SENSE

“WHAT I don’t like about women,” exclaimed Roy Morton, with an inflection of disgust, “is the kind of men they like.”

It was the morning of another day, and the exhaustive search commanded by Billy Walker as the mouthpiece of inexorable logic had begun. The voice of the oracle could at this moment be heard from the porch, where he was engaged in pleasant conversation with Mrs. West, while his three friends were busy with the actual work of investigation. They were in the small room opening off the hall, on the ground floor, which had been used by the late owner of the cottage as a sort of office. There, he had kept all of his business papers—at least as far as the knowledge of his secretary went. A flat-top desk in the center of the room contained a number of drawers, and in one corner stood a small iron safe. Under the terms of the will, every freedom was accorded to the searchers, and now safe and drawers had been opened for their convenience by May Thurston, who thus followed the instructions she had received from the lawyer. At the moment when Roy made his rather bitter remark concerning the nature of womankind, he had just observed, through a window that looked out to the south, a trio strolling along the lake shore. The three were Margaret, May and the ubiquitous Masters. It was the presence of the engineer that had aroused the indignation of Roy, and had caused him thus cynically to stigmatize feminine indiscretion in friendship. Himself a devotee of the fair sex, though shockingly irresponsible as an eligible bachelor, it irked him mightily that the requirements of his present relation to Saxe were such as to hold him there, poring over a motley of sordid bills, receipts, and other financial memoranda, the while a scoundrelly nincompoop (so he secretly termed the engineer) strutted abroad with two charming girls.

David laughed at the disgust in his friend’s voice, for he, too, had observed the passing of the three, and he understood perfectly the jealousy that underlay Roy’s displeasure in the situation. He paused in his task of conning the year’s milk bills of one Eleazer Sneddy, lighted a cigarette, and inhaled the fumes with a sigh of deep gratification.

“I wouldn’t mind being in his place myself, Roy,” he said, placidly.

The grumbler scowled at his too penetrant crony. Saxe looked up from a sheet of foolscap, covered in the minute handwriting of the miser with long columns of figures by which were set forth details of the expenditures for a month in the matter of postage. He, too, paused, welcoming any diversion from the uncongenial labor, and lighted a cigarette with manifest relief.

“Be in whose place, Dave?” he questioned, idly.

Roy attempted a distraction from the topic.

“Huh!” he sneered. “This adventure isn’t what it’s been cracked up to be—no gore, no gold, no anything, except a parcel of musty papers. I have just finished the thrilling items of tenpenny nails in the matter of shingling the cottage; I suppose that poor old miser had a spasm every time he paid for a pound of them. In fact, I’m sure of it, because I get psychosympathetically those same spasms in going over the charges.”

“Psychosympathetically is good,” David generously declared. Then, he turned to Saxe. “Roy just saw Masters out for a walk with the girls, and it stirred him to envy, naturally enough. It did me, too, for there are certainly two unusually nice girls.”

Roy’s gloomy face lighted in an instant, marvelously. His eyes grew very blue and soft, his lips curved in the smile that made all women like him.

“Peaches!” he ejaculated, with candid enthusiasm. “But what a revelation it was when little Miss Thurston took off her spectacles. A demure angel appeared where before had been a dumpy New England schoolmarm.... I have discovered the important fact that spectacles on a short woman take exactly two inches from her height.”

“Have you informed Miss Thurston of your interesting discovery?” David inquired.

“Not yet,” was the answer; “but I shall, at the first opportunity. It’s a crime for any woman not to be as beautiful as she possibly can, every moment of her life. Think of the wholesome happiness that loveliness gives to every observer!”

“Except the other women,” Saxe suggested.

Roy disdained the interruption:

“And yet,” he continued, energetically, “there are women, good women, mind you, who give away soup, but look like frumps, and actually believe that they are doing their duty. Why, sirs, they minister to the bellies of a dozen, perhaps, while they shock the finest sensibilities of the souls of a thousand who have to look at ’em. And they believe that they have done their duty. It’s shameful. Are bellies more than souls?”

The thoughts of Saxe were busy with the other of the two girls, Margaret West; and now he spoke of her, reverting to Roy’s diatribe concerning the chief duty of women.

“Margaret West certainly fulfills all her obligation,” he observed. There was a quality of repressed admiration in his voice, which set the observant David to thinking. “She is beautiful at all times. It’s a delight to look at her.”

The others nodded agreement, but, in the same moment, Roy grinned sardonically.

“Beware!” he advised, mockingly. “Remember that that girl, so young and seemingly so innocent, is your deadly enemy. Don’t let the spell of her loveliness lull you into a fancied security, in which you may be caught off guard. Again, I bid you beware.”

“What on earth are you raving about?” Saxe demanded, in genuine astonishment, “but you’re merely joking, of course—though I must say that I don’t exactly see the humor.”

“Perhaps my language was a trifle extravagant,” Roy conceded; “but as to the essential fact, why, I stand by what I said. Margaret West is, naturally, your enemy. There can’t be a shadow of doubt as to that.”

“Margaret West my enemy!” the incredulous Saxe repeated, in a voice that was indignant. “Why, man, the idea’s absurd.”

Roy wagged his head, sapiently.

“Human nature is human nature,” he vouchsafed. “Money is power. There are a dozen truisms that I might utter very aptly at this present juncture, but I refrain. It so happens, however, that, in the event of your failing to discover the hiding-place of the gold so artfully concealed by the late lamented, this same Margaret West will fall heiress to exactly one-half of that gold. Therefore, inevitably, she is your enemy. Such is the law of our civilization, in which gold plays the vital part.”

Saxe was frowning. He turned to David, with open impatience.

“Did you ever hear the like of that nonsense?” he demanded.

David smoked thoughtfully, and paused for a few seconds before he answered. Then, he smiled his usual kindly smile, as he spoke decisively:

“Of course, it does seem a bit preposterous, first off,” he admitted. “But, you see, the common facts of experience lend color to Roy’s argument. Miss West is a charming girl, and doesn’t seem a bit the sordid, avaricious type, and yet—well, you never can tell. Women are kittle cattle, and there’s a pot of money concerned. I’m thinking she wouldn’t be quite plain human, if she didn’t want you to fail. Of course she does—she must—yes, Roy is right enough, Miss West is your natural enemy.”

Saxe was silenced, and, in a manner of speaking, convinced as well. He was forced to admit the plausibility of the reasoning of his friends, although his feeling was still bitterly opposed to any admission that their contention was just in this particular instance. It occurred to him that, were the case reversed, he would undoubtedly desire the seeker’s discomfiture with all his heart, would, in fine, regard the seeker as his natural enemy—just as Roy had designated Margaret West to be his natural enemy. Nevertheless, something within him forbade that he should esteem this girl as one hostile to himself. The color in Saxe’s cheeks deepened a little. Of a sudden, it was borne in on his consciousness that there existed a most cogent reason why he could not regard Margaret West as an enemy. It was because he so earnestly desired her as a friend. In that instant of illumination, he realized that never before in his life had he longed for the friendship of woman as now he yearned for that of Margaret West. A strange confusion fell on him. He did not quite understand the emotion that welled in his spirit; it was something new to his experience, something subtle, bafflingly elusive—and very, very sweet.

Saxe was recalled to the business of the moment by the pained voice of Roy:

“Digging the drain cost six dollars and ninety-eight cents.”

“Sounds like a department store,” was David’s amused comment. “I learn that, on the sixteenth of last January, nine cents was expended in the purchase of the succulent onion.”

Roy groaned with dismal heartiness.

“I embark on an adventure. I crave adventure, I seek it in far places and near, wherefore I come hither with my bold companions, a-hunting a chest of gold. Forthwith, I become an uncertified private accountant. What hideous degradation! I tell you, Saxe, I’m mighty sick of this job. I’d just as lief be assistant bookkeeper in a tannery.”

“Why tannery?” David inquired. He pushed the heap of papers aside, and lighted another cigarette, highly pleased with the diversion.

“Because a tannery happened to be the most disagreeable place I could think of at the moment,” was the simple explanation. “Smells, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” David admitted. His jagged nose wrinkled violently, as memory smote his olfactory nerves.

Saxe seized on a topic that promised some measure of distraction from his crowding thoughts:

“Myself, I don’t think much of this method.” He waved a hand contemptuously toward the litter of papers on the desk before them. “It seems to me that we’re just losing time in wading through all this trash. But what shall we do, instead? This is a part of the exhaustive search.”

Roy sprang up with an exclamation of impatience.

“No Christian gentleman, not even a miser, would concoct the diabolical idea of preserving a clue to his gold pots amid trash of this sort; besides, I have a presentiment.”

“Oh, a presentiment!” There was a note of scoffing in Saxe’s voice.

But David, in the years since their graduation, had journeyed with Roy through strange places, and so had come to know the whimsical nature intimately, with a consequent respect for some seemingly fantastic idiosyncracies. Now, he stared at his friend expectantly, with no hint of derision in the look.

Roy smiled quizzically, as he met David’s earnestly inquiring gaze:

“You’re not so skeptical, eh, Dave?” he said.

David smiled wryly, and shook his head. In his gentle, goggling eyes was reminiscence.

“It’s borne in on my consciousness,” Roy continued, rather pedantically, “that the clue isn’t here, and it’s not to be found by tedious, disgusting ransacking of scraps, like these we’ve been wasting our time on here, but, on the contrary, will be revealed to us in some much more curious manner. In fact, I feel that we shall succeed, but that our success will come in an apparently chance suggestion from some one of us, which will really be in the nature of an inspiration. You see, Dave,” he concluded, staring at the other intently, “the idea of the hiding-place is well compacted as a thought-form, for the old man was thinking of his treasure and its concealment hour after hour, day after day. The influence is here, ready to affect anyone sensitive enough to be susceptible to such vibration. For my part, I’m sure some one of us will presently become obsessed by some seemingly absurd idea—an idea, in all likelihood, quite irrational—that idea will lead us to victory, and to the Abernethey gold.”

Saxe laughed, a bit sourly. Roy’s psychic gasconading would have been more amusing with another theme. It seemed, in truth, rather heartless jesting, when a fortune was the issue. To suggest that wealth must await the vagaries of a thought-form’s impact on somebody’s consciousness, which wouldn’t know even what had hit it! Of all preposterous things! It was brutal, too.

David sprang to his feet, his big, brown eyes shining alertly through the eyeglasses.

“Praise be!” he cried. Instantly, thereafter, he proceeded to the execution of a clog-dance, which he performed with astonishing precision and swiftness, while Roy clapped the rhythm with foot and hands.

Saxe looked on in unconcealed disgust. At the conclusion of the pas seul, he lifted his voice in complaint:

“Well, of all the heartless, unsympathetic wretches! If it was your money, you might not feel so devilishly tickled.” He glared at the unabashed two accusingly.

David strode forward, and clapped his friend on the back.