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[Illustration: “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


[Illustration]






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

CHAPTER                               PAGE

        Prologue                         1

      I Adventurers’ Pact               15

     II The Secretary                   28

    III The Assembling                  38

     IV Eve of Battle                   48

      V The Search Begins               62

     VI The Sixth Sense                 79

    VII Haphazard Questing              94

   VIII In the Recess                  108

     IX The Gold Song                  121

      X In the Wood                    131

     XI The Shot                       147

    XII The Secret Vault               166

   XIII The Clue                       177

    XIV The Episode of the Launch      195

     XV The Chart                      203

    XVI The Hold                       219

   XVII Masters Again                  230

  XVIII Dux Facti Femina               239

    XIX In the Cavern                  257

     XX The Events of a Night          268

    XXI The First Pit                  288

   XXII The Other Passage              303

  XXIII The Blast                      318

   XXIV Entombed                       332

    XXV To the Chimney                 345

   XXVI In the Dark                    359




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:

[Music]

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:

[Music]

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.

“Hold your hosses!” he cried. A crisp note of authority was in his
voice. “Why, old fellow, this is just what I’ve been waiting for.”

“Indeed!” Saxe exclaimed, with sarcasm. Then, he shrugged his
shoulders resignedly. He found himself fairly bemused by this madness
on the part of his friends.

“It’s this way,” David went on. His manner proved that, however
extravagant in his credulity, he was quite sincere. “I’ve been about
more than a bit with Roy, and in some infernally tough places, too,
let me tell you.” Saxe nodded assent. “Well, the fact of the matter
is simply this: From experience, I’ve learned that, when Roy has a
hunch, it goes--that’s all. He has sensed things, as he calls it,
and our acting on the knowledge we got in that way has saved our
lives--more than once--so, here, I’ve been waiting for his sixth
sense to get busy, and it has, at last. I was beginning to get
discouraged. Now, everything’s all right. Roy’s got his hunch.”

Before Saxe could voice utter disbelief in a trust so fantastic, he
was interrupted by Roy himself. That intermittent seer, who had been
smoking with an expression of infantile contentment on his face,
sprang lithely and noiselessly to his feet. While Saxe and David
stared curiously, he leaned close to them, and whispered:

“There’s somebody listening. Look out of the window, Saxe.”

Roy had been sitting for some time with his back to the one window
in the room, while the other two had been facing it. There had come
no sound from without. Now, instinctively obedient to the command,
Saxe darted to the window, which was open, and thrust out his head.
Close to the wall of the cottage, within a yard of him, stood Hartley
Masters in an attitude of absorbed attention.

Without attracting the notice of the eaves-dropper, Saxe drew back,
and turned to his friends. He nodded affirmation of Roy’s surmise. In
the gaze with which he scrutinized the amateur psychic, there was a
curious commingling of bewilderment, respect and chagrin.

David threw back his head, and laughed joyously, scorning the
listener, and spoke his mind:

“When Roy gets a hunch--watch out!”




CHAPTER VII

HAPHAZARD QUESTING


Masters, who was not minded to let the value of a small weekly
stipend stand between him and the possession of riches, had now
abandoned even the pretense of work. He let it be known, casually,
at the cottage that he was temporarily idle, while awaiting orders.
As a matter of fact, he was awaiting the dismissal that now could
not be long delayed. To May, however, he confessed the truth, that
he had chosen to sacrifice a paltry certainty for the sake of
possible wealth. She had protested against the recklessness of his
conduct, but her pleas had fallen on deaf ears. Masters went his
way of crafty greed without a moment’s faltering. He had exulted on
learning from the conversation overheard among the three friends that
the systematized search was to be abandoned in favor of a foolish
fancy--as he deemed it. While Saxe Temple and his companions loitered
in expectation of some psychic guidance, Masters would give himself
to the quest with an energy that must win him the victory. It was in
a very cheerful frame of mind that he betook himself to the cottage
on the following morning. Upon his arrival, however, he was at once
confronted with a new phase of the situation, which filled him with
rage.

The engineer found Mrs. West and Billy Walker chatting cozily on the
porch, as usual. Mrs. West beamed kindly in her greeting, for she
enjoyed the breezy manner of this handsome young man. Billy merely
grunted. To judge from the expression of his face, the utterance were
better inarticulate.

Masters leaned his long length against a pillar at the head of
the flight of steps, and joined genially in the conversation for
a few minutes, despite the manifest grumpiness of Billy Walker,
who, never a courtier, was at no pains to conceal his distaste for
the engineer’s society. Mrs. West, however, was amiability itself,
and Masters was minded to ignore the superciliousness of the other
man’s manner, though fully conscious of it. He felt that, under the
circumstances, he could ill afford to be too finical over such a
trifle, notwithstanding the irritation to his vanity. So he rolled
a cigarette from the chip tobacco and wheat-straw paper which he
affected, and chatted jauntily with Mrs. West. When he deemed that
a sufficient interval had elapsed, the engineer prepared the way to
continue his delayed search of the cottage:

“I’ll just take a look inside. Miss Thurston promised me a book.”

Forthwith, he reprobated himself for having employed this particular
ruse, for Mrs. West said:

“Miss Thurston isn’t in the cottage, Mr. Masters. You will find her
down at the boat-house.”

Masters thanked her with his most winning smile, and strolled away
toward the lake. Mrs. West looked after him with a femininely
appreciative smile.

“What a delightful gentleman Mr. Masters is!” she remarked innocently
to Billy; by way of answer, there came a rumbling, luckily again
quite inarticulate.

Forced thus by his own error to postpone the anticipated
investigation, Masters was in no pleasant mood as he made his way to
the boat-house, with the intention of venting his spite on the girl
who loved him. But even this relief was not to be vouchsafed him yet.
On the contrary, his displeasure was swiftly to become wrath, venomed
by alarm; for, as he drew near the boat-house, he heard a chorus of
merry voices. Instantly, he realized that the other men were here
where he had expected to find only May, and possibly Miss West. Fury
mounted high at the thought. A fierce, unreasoning jealousy bit at
him. So great was his emotion under these confederate causes that,
for once, he forgot discretion, and passed with hasty steps around
the boat-house, totally heedless of the distraught expression on his
usually debonair countenance.

As the engineer rounded the corner, a scowl bent his brows at sight
of the scene before him. The summer morning was of bland sun and
gentle airs to set the care-free in a mood for lazy delights. The
group of four, it was plain, had yielded to the soft seduction of
the hour, for their faces were radiant. Roy Morton was sitting, in
a boyish attitude, on the top of a snubbing post, about which his
long legs were twined for security’s sake, while May Thurston cuddled
at his feet, her face uplifted, her eyes rapt, as she listened
to some tale told from the book of his adventures. The spectacle
infuriated Masters, and new fuel fed the flame as his eyes fell on
the other two. These had their backs to the newcomer, who approached
immediately behind them. Margaret sat at the edge of the dock,
leaning against a post, in a posture of perfect comfort peculiarly
exasperating to the observer. A little to the right, and so placed
as to face the girl, Saxe sat, with his feet folded under him like a
Turk. Masters noted, even in this gusty moment, that his rival was an
especially good-looking young man, of the shaven, clean-cut type most
esteemed by the contemporary illustrator. The engineer appreciated
the type of which he himself was the exemplar, and appreciated it
indeed at its full worth, but, having a fair degree of intelligence,
he knew that women admired also the vigorous, wholesome and cultured
man, of the kind there before him. Though he had not the least fear
for his own prowess where the hearts of women were concerned, he
could not disguise from himself the fact that here was one who might
easily prove a dangerous rival were the opportunity given.

Saxe had just done with explaining to Miss West the reason for the
new era of idleness, which the day had inaugurated for himself and
his two companions. With Billy Walker, the era was merely continued.

It must be confessed that Saxe had cast a reconnoitering glance
toward Roy before beginning his recital, and that he held his voice
lowered throughout the telling. He knew that this confidence to the
girl, whom, to a certain extent, at least, the others distrusted,
might be deemed by them the height of folly. But he was past
respecting their opinions in aught that concerned her and him. So,
he told her freely of the decision to abandon systematic search, in
favor of a recondite dependence upon occult inspiration. Margaret’s
interest in the narrative was of the sincerest, and it delighted
him. Her manner of receiving the information was proof enough to
his mind that she harbored no least desire for his failure in this
undertaking. His heart was in a glow of happiness, as she bent a
little toward him, her face all eagerness, her limpid eyes dazzlingly
blue in the brilliant light. She met his gaze squarely, as she voiced
her protest against the course adopted:

“Oh, but, Mr. Temple, the time’s so short--less than three weeks
now--it isn’t safe!”

The two were in this attitude of absorbed intimacy when Masters’
glance fell upon them. The evident intensity of their interest in
each other capped the climax of his rage. He strode forward, with
a sneer arching the heavy mustache. At the sound of his steps,
the group looked up, and, in varying fashion, each of the four
showed unmistakable signs of dissatisfaction at this interruption
of the conversation. Masters so far forgot his manners as to make
no response to the rather curt nods with which the two men greeted
him. Instead, he halted abruptly, and stared, glowering, at Margaret
and Saxe. After the first moment of astonishment at the engineer’s
discourteous manner, Saxe’s expression of animation died out
suddenly, to be replaced by a set severity that augured ill for him
who should challenge it. Roy’s jaw shot out a little, and the veil
dropped over his eyes, which, a moment before, had been mild and
deep. Margaret could only regard the malevolent face of Masters with
sheer amazement, as his wrathful eyes met hers.

It was May who saved the situation. She sprang to her feet with a
little cry, which might have been of pleasure or of pain. With the
intuition of a loving woman, she seized instantly on the fact that
something had thrown her lover from his customary poise. Without a
particle of hesitation, she employed the first ruse suggested by her
woman’s wit:

“Oh, you did come, after all--in spite of that horrid tooth!”

She had no least idea as to the cause that had put the man in this
tempestuous temper, but she realized the necessity of restoring
him to some measure of self-control ere he should commit himself
hopelessly by a violent outbreak. The fiction concerning the tooth
rose to her lips without conscious volition on her part, the grimace
with which Masters faced her, though merely a physical symbol of
fury, might well have had its origin in a spasm of pain.

As he met May’s dismayed and imploring eyes, sanity rushed back on
the engineer. By a stern effort, he fought back the flooding wrath.
His face worked a little, then settled into a grim repose. While
the others waited in silence for the outcome, he suddenly smiled,
crookedly.

“I had a frightful twinge while I was coming through the woods, but
that didn’t matter so much, because I was alone, and could make
faces, and say just what I wanted to. But I do think it was unkind of
fate to visit the worst twinge of a jumping toothache on me at the
very instant when I stepped into the presence of company; forgive
me the face I made, please.” His big eyes were shining gently now,
where before they had been blazing. His demeanor was convincing to
the unsuspicious Margaret, who, having once experienced a jumping
toothache, was prepared to accept it as full justification for any
desperate deed. Of the others, May felt a profound relief in finding
that he had so swiftly made use of her offered help, and, for the
moment, this satisfaction contented her; Roy adjusted his jaw in
a less-belligerent fashion, as contempt took the place of anger;
Saxe found himself smiling, genuinely amused over the fancy of so
piratical-seeming a person in the throes of toothache. Neither of
the men, however, had the slightest doubt that May had offered an
ingenious excuse to account for the engineer’s savage manner; and
forthwith, Saxe and Roy began to wonder mightily as to what, in fact,
had occurred to destroy so completely the ordinary suavity of this
young gentleman whom they cordially detested.

Mrs. West sent her servant, Chris, in quest of Margaret, and,
soon afterward, May and Masters also went to the cottage, without
troubling much for an excuse, so that the two friends were left
alone together on the dock. But, before they had time to voice their
common astonishment over the scene that had just passed, they were
confronted by Jake, who, as they looked up at his approach, bobbed
his head at them, and winked with a fine air of mystery. When he
spoke, he addressed himself directly to Roy, for the love each of
them bore to niceties of mechanism sealed their sympathy.

“Well, what’s new, Jake?” Roy demanded, amiably.

Another series of bobbings and winks emphasized the importance of
the forthcoming communication. Then, finally, he spoke in a husky
whisper, for secrecy’s sake:

“Thought I’d look in on ye, and tell ye I got an idee.”

“Capital, Jake!” Roy’s tone was distinctly encouraging. “What’s it
all about?”

“It’s this way,” Jake began, with manifest pride in the importance
of the coming revelation. “You see, I know somethin’ ’bout the house
up thar--” he nodded over his shoulder in the direction of the
cottage--“that you chaps don’t. That’s what!”

At this preamble, Saxe, who had been giving only desultory attention
to the old man, quickly ceased looking out over the lake, and gave
ear to what the boatman was saying, while Roy, too, displayed a new
interest. Jake was plainly gratified by the effect he had wrought on
his hearers, and he proceeded with a note of pride in his voice.

“That’s one thing ’bout that-thar cottage that you ain’t onto, and,
thinkin’ as how you wa’n’t likely to be, I says to myself, says
I, I’ll jest put ’em wise, seein’ as how ye come, to a kind o’
standstill, as it were.”

“Thanks, Jake,” Roy said. “We surely need any help we can get at this
stage of the game. Go ahead.”

The cottage was an uncouth structure. It had originally been a
story-and-a-half building, and to this Abernethey had added a sort of
wing to make the music-room, and eventually this portion had become
the principal bulk of the edifice, for domestic offices had been
joined to it, and a second story set above, in which were a number of
bedrooms. It was in reference to this second story on the wing that
Jake now came with tidings for the treasure-seekers.

“Si Hatch did that-thar job,” he said, with a wheezy chuckle of
amused reminiscence. “Si means well, but, ’tween you and me and
the lamp-post, he ain’t wuth shucks as a carpenter and j’iner--no,
siree! Well, bein’ a cussed fool, Si misca’c’lated somehow, and left
’bout two-fut space at the forrerd end ’tween the outside wall and
the lath to that side o’ the bedroom. I s’posed, o’ course, the old
man’d be madder’n a hornet, but he only jest grinned some, and says
to me, says he, it’ll save that much floorin’ for the bedroom, yes,
I snummy, he did! Mighty clus, the old man was.” Jake paused, and
regarded the listeners with merrily twinkling eyes. “Might so be as
the gold’s in thar,” he concluded. “O’ course, ’tain’t likely, but
it might so be.” He stood silent, awaiting comment.

“We’re tremendously obliged, Jake,” Roy declared promptly; and Saxe
added a phrase of appreciation.

“Do we have to tear the house down to get into the space?” Roy
continued.

Jake shook his head vehemently.

“Not a bit on it,” he declared; and he forthwith gave vent to another
chuckling series of explosions.

“You see, the old man was clus, as I said. That’s right, he was
gorrammed clus--meanin’ no disrespect. You know that-thar closet in
the front hall upstairs, by the bedroom door. Well, the old man said
they wa’n’t no earthly use o’ wastin’ good timber puttin’ a back to
that closet, with plasterin’ and all. So, he jest had paper put up.
You break away the paper, and then you can sidle right in’tween the
outside wall and the lath o’ the bedroom; thought it might be wuth
while jest to look in, as it were.”

“Indeed, we shall look in,” Saxe declared, “and we’re tremendously
grateful to you, Jake, for the tip, because we need a lot of help,
I’m thinking.”

Roy nodded assent.

“We appreciate the kindness, old chap,” he exclaimed. “And let me
tell you that I’m going to show my friendship by getting you a decent
berth, after this wild adventure is over and done with, where you’ll
have the chance of your life. Your skill with engines is wasted here;
it’s ’way off in Cuba, but it’ll be worth your while. Would you like
that?”

“You bet ye!” was the sententious answer of the boatman, as he turned
to lead the way toward the house. Presently, he chuckled yet once
again, contentedly, and added: “My old woman allus has been a-pinin’
to travel in furrin parts.”




CHAPTER VIII

IN THE RECESS


At the house, no one was visible with the exception of Billy Walker,
who, on the porch, reclined in a large rocking-chair, displaying his
customary masterly inactivity, the while he contemplated the tip of
a particularly black cigar, which he had not troubled to light for
the sufficient reason that there were no matches nearer than the
hall. The information concerning the recess within the walls was duly
imparted to him, and he followed his two friends and the boatman to
the closet in the hallway upstairs. The others were inclined to jeer
at Billy Walker for this surprising show of activity on his part. But
it was a jibe from Roy that put the lethargic one on his mettle. It
came after Jake had cut through the paper in a panel from floor to
ceiling, by which was revealed a black opening into the space beyond.

“And, above all,” Roy said, entreatingly, “don’t, I beg of you,
Billy, let your rash impetuosity lead you to squeezing in here.
Remember your paunch, and be warned in time.”

It is certain that, until this moment, Billy had had no slightest
thought of thus venturing into the opening. But human nature is often
contrary, and, though ordinarily Billy vastly preferred taunts to
physical exertion, in this instance it so chanced that his friend’s
remark touched him in a sensitive spot. He said nothing at the time,
however, contenting himself with a sudden, valiant resolve. So,
after candles had been brought, and his two friends had squeezed
themselves, one after the other into the opening, Billy Walker, in
his turn, essayed an entrance--to the considerable astonishment of
Jake, who remained in the hall.

“Better take a candle, sir,” he suggested; and he offered one already
lighted.

It was accepted, and, holding it high before him, Billy surveyed
the region into which he meant to venture thus intrepidly. By the
flickering light, he beheld a very narrow passage, in which, toward
the farther end, he could distinguish the deeper shadow that he knew
to be Roy, who had been the second to enter. There could be no doubt
as to the person’s identity, since there was no room in which one
person could pass another unless by climbing.

At sight of the limited space, Billy was assailed with pangs of
regret that he had so vaingloriously undertaken the adventure.
Nevertheless, he felt that it was now too late to retreat, and, with
a sigh of disgust, he thrust himself forward. He had observed in his
brief examination that there was no flooring, but merely the naked
joists, over which he must make his way very cautiously, stepping
accurately from one to another. Warily, then, he went forward, using
every caution. It was by no means pleasant going, because of the
precarious footing, and, too, because of the fact that his broad
shoulders were unduly constricted by the walls on either side.
Disaster came when a nail caught in the sleeve of his coat, just
as he gave a lunge forward. The unexpected restraint threw him out
of balance; in recovering himself, he dropped the candle. On the
instant, his imagination was filled with glaring visions of the house
in flames. Alarmed he stooped his heavy body swiftly--too swiftly,
alas--for his feet slipped from the narrow supports. He fell heavily.
His hands and arms shot through the plastering that ceiled the room
beneath. The violence of the impact was such that a large square
of the plastering broke away, and went clattering to the floor of
the room below. But, before the noise of its falling sounded, Billy
Walker had heard another sound, a sharp cry of surprise, or fear.
Through the rain of plaster, his eyes caught one glimpse of a darting
figure; his ears distinguished from out the other din a scurry of
steps over the polished floor. Even in the turmoil of the moment,
Billy automatically noted these things. But, at the time, he gave no
heed whatever to them, his one desire just then was to escape from
this horrible predicament without the loss of an instant. To that
end, he immediately began to back out, with never another thought to
the candle, which, however, had been extinguished by the fall.

Slowly and wrathfully, Billy Walker made his laborious retreat on
hands and knees backward from the scene of his exploits. His friends,
startled by the noise behind them, had managed to face about, and to
hurry toward him, and now they stood, one behind the other, peering
at the prostrate one; at first in amazement over his presence there
at all; then, in alarm over his condition; finally, reassured, in
hilarious enjoyment of the catastrophe that had befallen him. Their
presence and comments did not tend to soothe the outraged feelings of
the victim as he wearily crept, retrograde, into the closet, and at
last scrambled to his feet in the hallway. Jake was so discreet as to
say nothing at all, which reticence gave him a place for all time in
the unhappy man’s esteem, despite the fact that the disaster had come
from accepting the proffered candle. The others, unfortunately, were
not so restrained, and their remarks came near to offending Billy
Walker; certainly, they increased his exasperation against the event
that had made him ridiculous. But, after a little, he contrived a
diversion:

“I hope that plastering didn’t hurt anybody when it fell,” he
exclaimed, of a sudden.

Jake shook his head.

“Nope!” he declared. “Thar wa’n’t nobody downstairs, I guess,
Marthy’s out at the back, lookin’ arter her flower garden, and thar
wa’n’t nobody else round when we come up.”

“But there was someone in the room downstairs,” Billy persisted. “I
heard a cry, just as my fists went through the plastering, and then,
along with the other noise, I heard the steps of someone running out.”

“Was it a man or a woman?” Roy asked.

Billy shook his head.

“Really, I haven’t the least idea,” he answered, “You see, I was
pretty well occupied at the moment with my own affairs, and I didn’t
pay a particle of attention to anything else.”

“Anyhow, I don’t see that it matters much,” Saxe declared. “It’s
plain that you didn’t hurt anyone seriously, or we’d have heard of
it before this; it didn’t wound Mrs. Dustin, or Chris, for here they
both come now.” He waved his hand toward the stairs, and the others
turned to see the two hurrying up.

Mrs. Dustin was voluble, and mightily relieved to learn that her
precious Jake had suffered no harm. The mild, black eyes of Mrs.
West’s servant twinkled with amused excitement, when he was informed
as to the nature of the happening. They, too, were puzzled on hearing
that someone had been in the music-room at the time of the accident.

The three friends went down to the porch, which was still deserted.
Billy, who had cast a disgusted glance on the litter in the
drawing-room in passing, sighed lugubriously, as he sank back into
the rocking-chair.

“No more thrilling adventures by field and flood for me,” he boomed.
“I have had my bellyful, all at once. Let the cobbler stick to his
last, and let me stick to my chair. I got too confoundedly energetic,
and I’m old enough to know better. I’ve messed up the place
shockingly, which means so much extra work for the industrious Mrs.
Dustin, whose amiable, but foolish husband got me into this idiotic
scrape. You would have found that there was no gold in the place
without my assistance; and, unfortunately, I’ve incurred a financial
penalty for my misplaced intrusiveness--into the plastering--and when
the repairs of Miss West’s ceiling shall have been accomplished, it
will be my melancholy duty to foot the bill. Oh, misery!”

The others laughed with the unfortunate, who was now again restored
to his usual good humor. But, presently, Saxe spoke in a puzzled
voice:

“You really must have been mistaken, Billy, about having heard
someone down below you, in the music-room.”

Billy Walker snorted indignantly.

“I may possibly be a trifle languorous physically in some ways on
occasion,” he retorted, “but I assure you that my ears are quick
enough. I was not mistaken. I heard just what I told you I heard, and
I saw, too.”

The others were unaware that Billy did not exaggerate the excellent
quality of his hearing, and, in consequence, they found themselves at
a loss. It was Roy, the suspicious, who finally voiced the idea that
was bound to find lodgment in their minds. When he spoke, it was in a
tone of conviction:

“The ubiquitous Masters, of course!”

Saxe nodded assent.

“Spying again,” he agreed. “We know that he’s capable of it.” He
turned to Billy Walker, inquiringly.

“The fellow is undoubtedly open to suspicion, after what you caught
him at the other day.” Billy admitted. “Equally of course, we haven’t
a shred of evidence against him.”

“That doesn’t matter a bit, as long as we have the moral certainty,”
Saxe argued. “But the real gist of the problem is: What on earth is
the fellow up to, anyhow?”

“It’s just pure cussedness,” Roy asserted, his face hardening. “One
look at him is enough to warn anyone that he’s spoiling for mischief.
He’s a rotter, that’s all.”

Billy Walker shook his head, authoritatively.

“You’re wrong, as usual,” he announced, with unpleasant frankness.
“As a matter of fact, our friend, the enemy, has a motive other than
sheer deviltry.”

The others regarded the speaker in surprise, whereat Billy Walker
nodded his head vigorously a number of times, and looked very wise
indeed.

“Yes,” he continued, with much complacency. “After you had told me
the incident of his listening to your talk together, I grappled with
the problem of the engineer’s not minding his own business, and I
presently came on the obvious solution of the puzzle.” He paused,
expectantly.

“Well, what was it?” Roy demanded, impatiently. He was still smarting
a little from Billy’s sweeping statement as to his own habit of
inaccuracy. Saxe, too, showed a keen curiosity in his face.

“The simple truth of the matter is this,” the oracle resumed, when
he felt that he had sufficiently whetted their interest by delay.
“This man, Masters, has a mind to lay hold on Abernethey’s treasure
himself.” He stared triumphantly at first one and then the other of
his hearers.

The effect on them was enough to satisfy the purveyor of information.
Roy fairly gaped in amazement, while Saxe manifested first
astonishment, then incredulity, which he voiced baldly:

“Absurd!” he cried.

But Billy Walker was prepared to maintain his contention with
arguments, and forthwith he did so. And, at the last, Billy made a
shrewd suggestion, which, by a totally different method, arrived at
the conclusion already reached by Roy through his vaunted sixth sense.

“You may have wondered a little,” the oracle said, “that I should
have made no particular remonstrance when you incontinently gave up
the search commanded by immutable logic. Well, as a matter of fact, I
myself would have suggested the uselessness of further effort along
those lines. You see, the affair lies thus.” He paused for a moment,
and pursed his lips, as one preparing for didactic discourse. “This
chap, Masters, is on terms of considerable intimacy, I judge, with
the girl who was the secretary of the late Mr. Abernethey. Moreover,
he was here, on the spot. There can be no question that, sooner or
later, he learned the facts from her concerning the last will and
testament of the eccentric miser. Thereupon, he determined to go
treasure-hunting on his own account. He was on the job instanter,
so to speak. In fact, I’m quite willing to eat my hat, which is an
especially indigestible variety of Stetson, if the cottage has not
already been searched with great thoroughness by our industrious
antagonist.” Billy stared at his two friends contentedly out of his
small, dull eyes, and his heavy face wrinkled into a smile.

The result of his words was all that he could have desired.

“The infernal sneak!” Roy exclaimed, violently. His eyes grew hard,
his mouth set, with the slight forward push of the jaw. In Saxe’s
face, too, anger was plain. “To think of a nice girl being fooled
like that!” Roy continued furiously, after an interval of silence.
“But we’ll land the robber somehow. If we don’t, I’ll find some
excuse for beating him up.”

“Never mind the pummeling,” Billy counseled. “Just you keep your eyes
open that he doesn’t beat you--to the money. For the present, that’s
more important than jealous rows.” At this remark, which showed that
the scholar was more observant than might have been supposed in a
field so foreign to his usual investigations, Roy blushed for the
first time in many years, and Saxe was so rude as to titter aloud.

It was at this moment that David appeared from around the north end
of the cottage. Forthwith, he was made familiar with all that had
happened during the period of his absence, together with the lively
suspicions entertained against the engineer. When the tale had been
told, David took a few minutes for reflection before he spoke.

“I’m willing to believe anything against that ornery critter,” he
remarked at last, with his big eyes twinkling; “but I am, before
all else, a just man. You’ve got to leave Masters out on this last
deal. As a matter of fact, he has a perfectly good alibi; I wanted a
line on the rapscallion, and so I fairly forced myself on him this
morning--to his disgust. But he didn’t think it quite prudent, I
guess, to be out-and-out rude to me. For the last two hours Masters
and I have been together, strolling chummily over the hills and far
away.”




CHAPTER IX

THE GOLD SONG


As Mrs. West, with Margaret and May Thurston, had gone for a stroll
soon after the departure of David and the engineer, the mystery
concerning the identity of the person in the music-room at the time
of Billy’s misadventure remained unsolved. The subject afforded the
friends much opportunity for speculation, all of which resulted in
nothing definite. Margaret and her mother showed not the slightest
irritation over the way in which the property had been damaged; on
the contrary, they were seen to smile whenever their gaze touched
the broken place in the ceiling, which remained the mute witness to
an inglorious achievement. Saxe, while awaiting the development of
another idea for the quest, devoted himself assiduously to Margaret.
He made no effort to conceal his infatuation--or, if he did, the
attempt was futile. He was, indeed, so flagrant in his court as to
fill the engineer with an ever increasing fury of jealousy, which
threatened ill to one or the other of the two young men. On his
part, Saxe was made miserable by the affability with which Margaret
accepted the attendance of the engineer on her. It seemed monstrous
that her instinct should leave her unwarned as to the vicious
character of the fellow. Saxe felt that he, as a gentleman, could
give her no least word of admonition under the circumstances. He
could only do his best to keep at her side every moment, and in this
he succeeded remarkably well, though by no means to the extent of
his desire. As for the disposition of the girl herself, she showed
neutrality between the two men in a manner that, while equally
objectionable to each of them, must have commanded the admiration of
any unprejudiced observer.

Roy devoted himself with good grace to May Thurston, who welcomed him
candidly, for her heart was deeply wounded by the patent defection
of her lover. Masters had glibly assured her that it was the part
of diplomacy just now for him to conceal their real relation by
his attentions to Margaret, but his reasoning was not altogether
convincing to her intelligence, and the voice of instinct told
her that her love was being flouted before her very eyes. In
consequence, she greeted this new admirer gladly as a sop to her
pride and, presently, as Roy exerted himself to the utmost toward
making a favorable impression, for the sake of the genuine pleasure
his company gave her. Being a sensible young woman in the main,
the inevitable comparisons that soon began to arise in her mind
between the two young men did much toward tearing loose the roots of
love from her heart, leaving the soil there freshly tilled for the
planting of other seed.

Mrs. West played her part excellently as chaperon by giving her
society much of the time to David and Billy. She was so good to look
on in her well-preserved charms, and so wise and sympathetic in her
conversation, and so untiring a listener, that the two men found
themselves very content.

The other three members of the household, Jake, his wife, and Chris
made an amiable trio in the kitchen, where Mrs. Dustin, who, as Jake
bore witness, had always “hankered to go a-travelin’,” was never
weary of hearing the newcomer’s tales of strange places whither he
had journeyed. For the first time in his life, Chris found himself
appreciated at his full worth, perhaps beyond, not as a servant but
as a man, by those who, while of a humble walk in life, were yet
not of the servant class. He expanded under the novel and pleasing
influence, and developed a gift of narrative that surprised himself.
He felt a new sense of his own importance, which did not in the least
lessen his devotion to Mrs. West and Margaret.

On the third night after the episode in the recess, the ladies had
retired to their chambers for the night, and the indefatigable
Masters, also, had taken his departure from the cottage, but the
four friends still remained in the music-room, where Saxe had been
playing. They were smoking and chatting in care-free fashion of many
things--but not of the treasure which they had set out to find,
though that lay ready at the back of the mind of each.

Saxe lingered at the piano. Now, he was idly giving forth bits of
various compositions as they chanced to rise in memory. It was
while in this mood of desultory reminiscence that he suddenly became
aroused to knowledge of the fact that he was monotonously drumming a
tedious strain, which had neither melody or harmony to justify the
choice of it at all, much less this senseless reiteration. For a few
seconds, he found himself bewildered: he could not recall what the
music was, either the name of the composition or the name of the
author. Nor could he recollect what manner of association he had ever
had with the barren phrases, that he should thus subconsciously carry
them in memory. He was disagreeably impressed by the event, because
he prided himself on the clarity of his mental processes, and here he
found himself completely baffled. Then, in a flash, remembrance came,
and with it an even greater wonder.

This was the music that had been written by the old man of whom he
was the doubtful heir. Even while he mused, he had been continuing
the harsh fragment, and now he gave careful ear to it, seeking some
explanation of the reason why it had persisted in memory, to issue
in his playing without volition on his part. But there came no
suggestion as to that cause from the uncouth strain. He played it
once again, without any hint of understanding, then ceased, wholly at
a loss; it was another who afforded the clue that had eluded him.

As the echoes died away, Billy Walker rumbled a comment from his
luxurious huddling in the depths of the chair:

“Sounds like money--heaps of money--gold, you know, all in stacks,
being counted--clink, clink! Clink, clink!”

Saxe whirled on the piano-stool, an expression of amazement on his
face as he stared at his unmusical friend.

“By heavens, Billy,” he cried excitedly, “you’ve got it--you’ve
got it exactly! That’s what it is; it’s the clink, clink, clink of
the gold-pieces, as they’re piled up.” He was astounded by this
perspicacity on the part of one who had no soul for music, yet had
succeeded here, where he himself had failed. He had no particle of
doubt that this explanation as to the meaning of the music was the
true one. He played the piece once again, emphasizing the accent in
the bass a little, so that the effect was even more pronounced. There
could be no mistake.

Roy spoke with sudden appreciation of the fact:

“Why, that’s the piece you played the other night--the weird one.
I’d been wondering where I’d heard it. It’s the one that got on
Miss Thurston’s nerves so, because the old man was always playing
it toward the last. It’s enough to get on anyone’s nerves, for that
matter, but Billy hit the idea all right.”

David Thwing, nodding energetically, turned his protuberant eyes on
Billy.

“Yes, you hit it, old man,” he exclaimed. “You got the idea we were
all looking for, and couldn’t quite catch hold of. Bully for you! But
how in the world did you ever come to do it? You, a music sharp!” He
burst into a mellow peal of laughter, in which the others joined.

Suddenly, Saxe sprang to his feet, with a display of emotion that
was contrary to his habit, for he had schooled himself to a certain
phlegmatic bearing that masked the native susceptibility of his
moods. Now, however, he forgot restraint in the agitation of his
feeling, and addressed his friends with a vehemence that astonished
them. His swift gestures and the changing play of his features
revealed the volatile artistic temperament, which was ordinarily
shrouded within a veil of imperturbable calm.

“I know, I understand it all now,” he declared eagerly. “In this
music, the old man crystallized his besetting sin. This composition
of his is the song of gold; it is the miser’s song. In it, he
translates into musical terms the vice that corroded his soul. In
it, he expresses the sordidness of that vice, even as he himself
knew it out of dreadful personal experience. And, somehow, he put
into the music the strength of the spell that was laid on him. It
is there--some malignant fascination which each and every one of us
has felt in a fashion of his own. That is why it so gripped Miss
Thurston, and why it affected her so disagreeably. It has in it a
subtle, irresistible suggestion of the hideous. The ignominy and
the power of greed alike sound in the monotony of its rhythm, its
harshness, its fearful simplicity. It is uncouth, it is as if it
were calloused. Yet, it is full of vital, frightful emotion. It is
a statement of ghastly truth, it is a confession of degradation, it
is a wail of utter despair. In short, it is the heart-song of the
miser, written by the brain that looked into the heart and learned
its hateful mystery.”

The others had listened in tense silence, surprised beyond measure
before this outbreak from one always hitherto so tranquil, so serene
amid the varying stresses of affairs. It was the revelation of their
friend in a new light, wherein he showed with an impressiveness
strange to them. They watched him intently as he stood there before
them, all animation, his handsome face flushed in the passion of
the moment. A little sigh of appreciation issued from the lips of
each as, with the last words, he sank again to the piano-stool, and
dropped his hands to the keys. So, once again, he played the music
of that dead man who had given himself to a gross, an evil worship.
Still under the influence of deep emotion, the player now abandoned
himself to the theme, and wrought on it with all his skill in music,
with all the feeling of repulsion that held him in thrall.

There was not in this improvisation the power, the mastery, that had
marked the frenzied interpretation by which the composer had amazed
the night. But Saxe Temple was not wanting a large measure of skill,
and to this he added the sympathy of the true artist, surcharged with
a profound emotion. The uncanny spell of the music laid its hold on
them all as he went on playing, gripped them, sent weird visions
reeling before their fancy. Even Billy Walker for once was beguiled
into a curious receptivity, so that he saw vistas of crouched
specters, which ceaselessly shuffled golden coins to and fro, in a
frenetic joy that was the madness of anguish. May Thurston, asleep in
her chamber, turned uneasily, and her dreams grew troubled.

When, at last, Saxe had made an end of playing, there followed a
long silence. It was Billy Walker who broke it. His great voice rang
through the room, harsh, compelling:

“It’s there,” he said, with simple finality. “It’s there--the clue!”




CHAPTER X

IN THE WOOD


The others received the astonishing pronouncement of Billy Walker
with varying emotions, of which the chief was a candid incredulity.

“How in the world do you justify that remarkable statement?” Roy
demanded, breaking the silence of surprise, which had at first held
the three.

For a moment, Billy showed traces of embarrassment. Then, swiftly, an
expression of relief showed on his heavy face, and he spoke glibly
enough:

“The conclusion to which I have come,” he declared ponderously, “is
compelled by exact reasoning from all the facts in our possession.
The late Mr. Abernethey unquestionably left for his heir some sort
of clue as to the hiding-place of the money. Having in mind the
whimsical nature of the man, we may well believe that, in a case such
as this, the clue would be of an especially curious kind. Next, we
have the fact that Mr. Abernethey was a musician. He was devoted to
that art beyond anything else, excepting only his passion as a miser.
Now, our search through his effects and his house has discovered
only a single thing having a real, vital bearing on his personality,
and--more than that--on the very object of our quest here, money. In
consequence of all these facts, I am led to the conclusion that this
page of manuscript offers us the clue for which we have hitherto been
hunting in vain.” The speaker paused, to stare from one to another of
his auditors triumphantly.

Roy uttered an ejaculation of impatience.

“Reason is a good thing sometimes, and sometimes it isn’t. This, I’m
thinking, is one of the times when it isn’t. The trouble with your
whole argument, Billy, lies in an additional fact; that a sheet of
music can’t tell you where a certain hole in the ground may chance to
be.”

“Why not?” Billy’s question came tartly.

Roy replied with a hint of disdain in his voice, such as is often
characteristic of the musical person in speaking of his art to one
unlearned.

“The reason would be obvious to you, if you knew anything of music,”
he declared.

“Then, it’s lucky I don’t,” was the other’s retort; “because, in some
way that we don’t know yet, the clue we need is set down on that
manuscript. It is logically certain, and, if you musical sharps can’t
guess as much, it’s fortunate I’m along to give you the pointer.”

David, also, expressed himself as skeptical of the announcement made
by Billy:

“If it had been anybody except Billy who had been hit by this idea,
I should feel quite differently about it,” he asserted, chuckling in
response to the glare of indignation with which the oracle received
the words. “Of course, you know my feeling in the matter. I’m
expecting some sort of inspiration to hit us; I have been, ever since
Roy had his hunch. But Billy isn’t of the sensitive temperament,
which is receptive to impressions of a psychic sort. If Roy had
received this idea, without a bit of reason to back it up, I should
have had high hopes--or if it had come to Saxe even, because he has
the sensitiveness of the artistic temperament.”

“Or even if it had come to your delicately susceptible self, I
suppose,” Billy suggested, acrimoniously.

David nodded assent.

“With all humility, yes,” he answered, unabashed. “And you needn’t be
peevish, Billy, for the simple reason that you’d be furious if anyone
were to accuse you of being a psychic subject. Eh, wouldn’t you?”

Billy growled assent.

“That sort of thing’s all rot,” he affirmed, with emphasis.
“I arrived at the fact easily and sanely by the exercise of a
rationalizing intelligence.”

“Precisely!” David agreed. “And that’s why I don’t attach the
slightest importance to your statement.” At this heterodox
confession, Billy was too overwhelmed with disgust to pursue the
argument farther.

Saxe did not share in the avowed disbelief of Roy and David. While
the others were engaged in disputation, he had gone to the stack of
music, and had looked through it until he came upon the sheet of
manuscript. Then, he returned to his seat on the stool, placed the
music on the rack, and devoted himself to scrutiny of the writing.
He felt, somehow, that he dared not reject the suggestion that here
was the very thing he sought as the guide to fortune. Nevertheless,
though he studied the page with anxious intensity, he could perceive
no possibility of any hint to be derived from the simple score
of notes. There was nothing set down in the way of diagram, or
combination of letters which by twist of ingenuity might be made to
suit his need. Nothing showed beyond the phrases of a composition
naked in its simplicity. Reason told him that any trust in this
manuscript were delusion. Yet, he hung over it, absorbed, even while
he chided himself for his interest in a thing plainly worthless to
the purpose.

It was Billy Walker, turning in disgust from the debate with
David, who first observed Saxe’s absorption in the manuscript, and
his vanity was at once consoled by this mute support. He got up
lumberingly, and crossed over to the piano, where he stood looking
down at the music. His action caused David and Roy to perceive what
Saxe was doing, and forthwith, despite their skepticism, they, too,
rose and went to the piano, there to stare down curiously at the
manuscript on the rack.

Here is a copy of the sheet on which the four adventurers were
looking down:

[Music]

The four stood in silence for a long minute, gazing down at the
manuscript page with keen discouragement. Saxe was the first to
speak, shaking his head dispiritedly:

“It means nothing,” he said, with melancholy certainty in his voice.
“There is no possibility of its meaning anything. For a moment, I was
foolish enough to hope that Billy had really got the right idea, but
he hasn’t. This is a plain bit of music, nothing more.”

“Of course!” Roy agreed, with a contemptuous inflection. “My personal
opinion is that the power of ratiocination is not always what it’s
cracked up to be, Billy.”

David, once again, shared the general disbelief.

“No,” he declared, “the idea won’t hold water. There is no way to
convey meaning by the score of a musical composition except the
emotion that the author has experienced himself, and wishes thus to
interpret to his hearers. The old man meant in this case to tell us
of the spell that the love of gold lays on the miser. He has done
that. Billy was the one who called our attention to the fact. He must
be content with that much glory. His other idea was just poppycock.”

Billy Walker was unconvinced.

“I know nothing about music,” he conceded. “But I have the God-given
gift of reason, which is not vouchsafed to the brutes--or to all
human beings, I regret to say. Reason convinces me that the clue
lies somewhere on this sheet. I reaffirm my conclusion. Since I know
nothing of music, the remainder of the work must be done by you. It
has now become your responsibility. I have done my part.”

The dignity and the earnestness with which this declaration was
made impressed the doubters in spite of themselves. When Billy had
ceased speaking, they remained silent, vaguely hesitant, though
quite unconvinced. Saxe, perhaps, more than either of the others
was desirous of accepting Billy’s idea as true, but he was unable
to justify it by anything tangible. His was, after all, the chief
interest in the issue, and he was eager to seize on even the most
meager possibility that offered hope of success. So now, he was
anxious to believe, and racked his brain to find some character of
subtle significance on the page before him. It was in vain. He could
discern nothing beyond the obvious meaning of the score as the symbol
of a musical composition.

Thus the matter remained for a week. Billy Walker retained certainty
as to the correctness of his judgment; David and Roy maintained their
attitude of skepticism; Saxe continued his mood of willingness to
believe, along with a total incapacity to find an atom of evidence
in support of it. He sat for hours before the manuscript, hoping
for some inspiration to come, but his thoughts remained barren.
He realized, with poignant regret, that time was slipping away on
swiftest wings, yet he felt himself powerless before the problem, on
the solving of which his fortune was conditioned.

Nevertheless, not all his time was given to the quest. A part, even
the greater part, was bestowed on Margaret West--on her in person,
when opportunity served, on her in thought, when absent from her. His
failure to make any progress in the search for the treasure would
without doubt have caused him vastly more distress of mind, had it
not been for the fact that most of his energy was devoted to the
girl. Worry over money could not affect him to desperation, when he
was constantly titillating over the secret of a maiden’s heart. He
was assiduous in his attentions, but he could not win from Margaret
any sure indication of preference. She was as amiable as the most
exacting lover might require, but she displayed none of that coyness
or confusion for which Saxe looked as a sign that her heart was
engaged. He did not dare over-much, for the brief length of their
acquaintance seemed to forbid. But this restraint caused him torment
on account of jealousy, since Masters appeared soon as an open rival
in the wooing of the girl. Margaret’s treatment of the engineer was
of such a sort that it drove Saxe nearly to desperation. She was
unfailingly as amiable to the one as to the other of her suitors. It
was, to Saxe, utterly inconceivable that any woman could be guilty
of such folly as to love a man like the engineer, yet the girl’s
attitude toward Masters filled him with alarm, so that he pressed
his own suit with more insistence, and came to hate his adversary
exceedingly.

Masters, too, suffered under the curse of jealousy. His love for
Margaret was a sincere passion, and the hate Saxe bore for him he
returned in overflowing measure. Through all his emotion of love,
however, there remained in undiminished vigor his desire to possess
himself of the gold hidden by Abernethey. And, presently, there grew
in him a desperate resolve, brought into being in part by greed, in
part by hatred of his rival.

May Thurston was another in the throes of anguish, and that from
no fault of her own. Her love for the engineer had involved her in
almost unendurable humiliation. His ostentatious worship of Margaret
West at first filled May with the agony of outraged affection, then
forced her to the wrath of revolt against such treachery. This mood
endured. The little hypocrisies of loving, which Masters attempted
on the rare occasions when the two were alone together, did not
deceive her in the least. Yet, the final break between the two was
delayed for lack of courage on her part to accuse him openly of his
guilt. The matter stood thus between them when, one morning after a
sleepless night, May got from her bed before sunrise, dressed herself
hurriedly, and left the cottage, hoping that the freshness of the
dawn might serve to soothe her wearied nerves. She wandered aimlessly
hither and yon through the woods bordering the shore, and did indeed
win some solace for her soul in the radiance of the summer day. She
was about fifty yards distant from the cottage, descending the slope
that ran to the shore, when she heard a slight noise among the bushes
in front of her. She halted instantly, curious to know what manner
of creature might be at hand, and welcoming any distraction from the
distress in her heart.

Herself hidden by a screen of foliage, she peered forth cautiously,
searching with her eyes the thicket beyond. At first, she could
distinguish nothing, and, after a little, became convinced that she
had been deceived by the dropping of a rotted branch. She was on the
point of advancing again, when another and louder sound arrested
her. It issued from a place somewhat farther to the right than that
she had scrutinized, and now, as she watched intently, she made out
the dim form of some object moving slowly within a clump of high
bushes, from the center of which grew a thick-leafed sapling. Another
minute of inspection convinced her that the object was a man, and
immediately an intuition bore upon her that it was Masters himself.
Sure of his identity, she went forward quickly, following the impulse
of the moment, and called him by name.

Masters--for it was in truth the engineer--whirled and faced the girl
with an expression of terror, which, however, vanished so swiftly
that May afterward found herself wondering if in fact she had not
merely imagined it. Moreover, he smiled on her with more tenderness
than he had exhibited in his manner for days, and his voice, when he
spoke, was caressing:

“You, May!” he cried. His tones indicated a joyous surprise over the
unexpected meeting. “You, too, are rivaling the lark this morning,
like myself. I woke up three hours ago, and, when I found there was
no chance to get to sleep again, I decided to commune with nature.
I’ve been trailing a wonderful moth, but I’ve lost it at last, I’m
sorry to say. It was a beauty!” He paused from the flow of words,
which had been perhaps a trifle too rapid for entire sincerity, and
regarded the girl with a glance that was at once fond and quizzical.
“And did you, too, have a touch of insomnia?” he inquired.

May nodded, rather listlessly. For some reason that she could not
understand, she was not convinced by the specious suavity of the
engineer’s utterance. At the back of her mind was a belief that the
man was lying, though she refused to allow the accusation place. Her
instinct revolted against the disloyalty of the fellow. Nevertheless,
her heart was moved to a last struggle in behalf of the love to which
she had once so joyously surrendered herself. She determined on an
appeal to that better nature which she believed the engineer to
possess:

“Hartley,” she said softly, “I wish you to do something for me--no,
for yourself. I want you to give up this mad idea of securing the
gold Mr. Abernethey hid.” The gaze of her dark eyes was full of
affectionate pleading.

The reply of Masters was prompt, without any least trace of
hesitancy. He put out his hand, and took hers, pressing it tenderly.

“Dearest,” he said softly, “you have been right, and I have
been wrong. I see it now. I was carried away for a little while
by my longing for money. I wanted it for you, not for myself
altogether--you must know that. Now, I have repented. It was my
conscience that kept me awake last night. I have already abandoned
the idea of trying to get hold of a fortune that doesn’t rightly
belong to me. Can you forgive me, dearest? I’ve been a little mad,
I think.” He paused, and, in the silence that followed, drew her to
him, and kissed her very gently on the forehead.

May accepted the embrace--knew not, indeed, how to refuse it,
although it failed to thrill her with that rapture which she had once
known in his arms. Instead, she sighed in a confusion of emotions,
which she herself was far from understanding. As a matter of fact,
however, this was the beginning of the end. At last, under the
stress of doubt inflicted persistently on her higher nature, the
physical attraction exerted by Masters, which, unknown to her, had
been the impelling cause for the activity of her imagination in
making him an ideal, this potency of sex charm was overwhelmed by
the essential antagonism between her soul and his. A certain shyness
held her mute, so that Masters was well content with the effect
he had secured; but, in this, his self-confidence and the seeming
passivity of the girl led him far astray. In truth, May felt assured
that Masters lied, and the failure of personal contact to yield any
emotion save an actual dissatisfaction set the instinctive disbelief
in bold relief. When, soon afterward, they separated, May was
secretly aware that her first romance had come to an inglorious end.




CHAPTER XI

THE SHOT


It was in the evening of this same day, at dinner, that the element
of tragedy was first injected into the situation. In addition to
Mrs. West and her daughter, May Thurston, and the four young men,
there was present Hartley Masters. He had been invited frequently to
dine at the cottage, and had for a time accepted every invitation.
Latterly, however, the evidences of strained feeling between him
and the other men had become so pronounced that he had usually
offered some excuse for declining the kindly hospitality of Mrs.
West. Another reason that influenced him in this was his own lack of
confidence in his self-control, since the incident at the boat-house,
which he had had some difficulty in explaining satisfactorily to
May. Nevertheless, tonight, he had chosen to rely on his powers of
self-restraint, and had accepted at once when Mrs. West suggested his
remaining for the evening meal.

The construction of the cottage was such that the dining-room was
at the back of the house. On the left, as one entered the hall, was
the large music-room, which occupied the entire ground floor of the
added wing. On the right, the first room was that which had served
Abernethey as an office. Beyond this came the dining-room, with one
window at the back, and one on the north side. Mrs. West sat at the
head of the table, in such a position that she faced the window to
the north. Margaret sat opposite her, while Saxe was placed at her
right hand. Beyond him was May Thurston, and beyond her Roy. Billy
Walker was beside the hostess on the left, and then David Thwing,
while Masters filled the place next to Margaret.

The conversation at the table went pleasantly enough, despite
the latent hostility between the engineer and the other men. The
antipathy of Saxe and his friends was certainly not shared by either
Margaret or her mother, unless they concealed their feeling with
much skill, for the daughter addressed herself to Masters much of
the time, and Mrs. West often included him in the conversation. By
tacit agreement the subject of the miser’s gold was not touched
on by anyone, and the desultory talk ran the usual gamut of art,
literature, the drama, and those innumerable topics that serve as the
transient vehicles for individual wit and seriousness.

It chanced that a decanter stood on the table, close to the edge,
just by Billy Walker’s right elbow. As he turned to address David on
his left, his right arm was moved carelessly, and the decanter was
jolted from its place. It poised for a second, balanced on its bottom
edge, then fell over the side of the table toward the floor. But the
time, brief as it was, had been sufficient for action on the part of
Saxe. Naturally of exceeding rapidity of movement, although he held
this under restraint ordinarily, so that he appeared rather languid
than otherwise, an instantaneous responsiveness of his body to any
command of the will had been cultivated by the years of exercise at
the piano. So, now, on the instant when he perceived the touch of
Billy’s elbow to the decanter, he darted in a single step from his
seat to a position behind Mrs. West’s chair with arm outstretched,
and in the same second, his nimble fingers had closed on the neck of
the falling decanter, to which they clung tenaciously. Before he
could again straighten himself, there came a thud against the east
wall of the dining-room--with it the sharp crack of a rifle, fired
from close at hand.

Saxe stood erect--stared dumbfounded at the others. They stared back
at him, wordless for the moment, stupefied. Each looked at first one
and then another, unable to surmise as to what had come upon them. It
was Masters who finally broke the oppressive silence. The engineer’s
face was of a dead white, and as he spoke he tugged nervously at the
luxuriant mustache:

“Some hunter’s been mighty careless,” he declared; and he smiled,
rather feebly, on Margaret, who had looked up at the sound of his
voice.

“He sure was some careless,” agreed David who, at times, relapsed
into an early dialect. “Shootin’ promiscuous-like!” He goggled at the
startled company through his thick lenses.

Forthwith, a babel broke forth, a confusion of exclamations, in
which were voiced alarm, wonder and anger. It was Saxe, still on
his feet, who first bethought himself of the thud heard from the
direction of the east wall. At once, he went to the sideboard, which
was against the wall on that side. Only a brief search was necessary
to reveal the hole which the bullet had pierced in the top drawer of
the sideboard. Saxe uttered an ejaculation that brought the others
crowding about him. He exhibited the opening left by the bullet’s
passing, then pulled out the drawer, and found the missile itself
imbedded in the back. Roy and David, who had become familiar with
deadly weapons on the frontier of the Northland, dug out the bullet,
and immediately proceeded to learned discourse anent its character
and the caliber of the rifle from which it had been sent. Billy
Walker took no interest in this discussion, and, having stood on his
feet for a longer time than was his custom, returned to his seat
at the table, where he disposed himself with a sigh of relief. The
ladies, too, went back to their places, but Saxe, David and Roy, with
Masters, ran out of the cottage to search for the person who had
fired the shot. From the place in which the bullet had lodged, it was
evident that the rifle had been fired from some point on the ridge
back of the cottage, and up this the four took their way, scattering
as they went to cover a line of considerable length. They made a
pretty thorough examination, but came on nothing to indicate who the
culprit might have been. The underbrush was thick along the slope,
yet the range of space shown by the direction of the bullet was so
small that they were enabled to beat the coverts with completeness.
In the end, it was the general agreement that some hunter had fired
at a squirrel on the slope, probably in ignorance that a dwelling
lay beyond the screen of foliage. Afterward, he had gone on his way,
without any realization of possible peril from the shot.

The dusk was falling ere they abandoned the hunt, and started on
their return to the house. It was just before they reached the
cottage that David, who was blest with more humor than are most,
threw back his head, and laughed long and heartily with the mellow
peals that made those who heard him usually laugh for sheer sympathy
before inquiring the cause of his mirth. At the sound, Saxe and Roy
smiled expectantly; but Masters only looked on curiously.

“There’s a bit of comedy in this near-tragedy,” David explained,
after he had put a period to his merriment. “When you get back to the
house, Saxe old man,” he went on, more seriously, “it’s up to you to
get down on your marrow-bones, and say, ‘Thank you!’ to your indolent
friend, Billy Walker.”

“Why?” Saxe demanded, in astonishment.

“For the simple reason that he came all-fired close to saving your
life. In fact, I haven’t any doubt that he actually did save it. If
not that, he saved you from a nasty wound.”

“I don’t understand yet,” Saxe said, perplexed.

“It’s just this,” David explained. “From the location of the bullet
in the sideboard, I’m strongly of the opinion that you were exactly
in the line of it, so that, if you had been sitting in your place at
the table, you would have had it clean through the chest. You jumped
to catch the decanter Billy knocked off the table with his elbow.
That movement on your part saved you. It was Billy’s awkwardness that
caused your action; so it’s up to you to thank him for saving your
life. And, as a matter of fact, though I laughed, it’s not exactly a
subject for mirth.”

Saxe’s expression had grown very grave as he listened. There comes
always to the normal man a shock on realizing the imminence of death
for himself. The fact that the peril is past alters the nature of
the shock, but it hardly lessens it. So, in the present instance,
the young man, whose great risk was thus suddenly brought home to
him, felt the thrill of deep emotion, in which thankfulness for the
fate that had intervened in his behalf was strong. He said nothing
for a few moments, nor did Roy, who, in his turn, was affected as he
understood the danger that had menaced his friend. Masters uttered an
ejaculation, which was indeterminate as to meaning.

They found the others still in the dining-room, and immediately
learned that Billy Walker was quite willing to sacrifice his modesty
on the altar of fact; for he greeted their return with a roaring
statement:

“Saxe, my boy, I saved your life, and I hope you’ll do me credit.
From a study of the range of the trajectory of the bullet, I have
learned that, had you been in your place at the table, the bullet
would have penetrated your breast at a vital point. My clumsiness was
the first cause of your escape--examine for yourself.” He waved a
hand toward the sideboard.

Saxe, his face still grave, nodded assent.

“I appreciate it, Billy,” he said, “and I’ll not forget it, you may
be sure. Dave, too, thought of it.”

“Pooh, no thanks to me,” Billy declared, embarrassed by the
emotion in his friend’s voice. “It was only by accident that I
interfered--not by volition.”

“I know,” Saxe agreed. “But the fact remains that you were the
instrument of salvation, and that is what I shall always remember.”
He looked toward Margaret West as he spoke, and saw that her face
was very pale. He wondered how much of that pallor--if indeed any
of it--had been caused by his own peril. For a fleeting second, the
girl’s limpid blue eyes met his, then they were veiled by the thick
lashes. He found himself unable to read the meaning that had lain in
them. He went to his chair, seated himself, and afterward twisted
about to mark the precise line in which the bullet had passed. There
could be no manner of doubt: its course had been such that he could
have escaped only by a miracle, had he been in his place. There
could have been only a slight variation in the direction of the
bullet, dependent on the position of the marksman. That variation
could by no means have been great enough to save him from a grave,
probably a mortal, wound. Saxe shuddered, as the narrowness of his
escape was again, and thus visibly, borne in on his consciousness. He
looked about the cheery room and into the faces of the others with a
sort of wonder in the realization that he was still of the quick, not
of the dead. The wine of life took on new flavor. His gaze went again
to Margaret.

All went into the music-room presently, still talking of the event
that had been so close to tragedy--all except May Thurston. Without
attracting any attention, she quietly slipped away from the others
into the out-of-doors.

There are times when one finds it well-nigh impossible to analyze the
workings of the mind, and it was so with this girl tonight. Suspicion
had come to her--suspicion sudden, terrible, irresistible, and she
knew not whence it came. She fought against it in an effort of
reason, but she fought in vain. She could not flee its clutch, strive
as she would. In the end, she made abject surrender, and fled forth
into the night, to learn whether suspicion taught her truth or a lie.

May Thurston was a girl of much more than average intelligence.
Native shrewdness had been sharpened by years of association with
men of ability, to whom her secretarial skill had made her valuable.
She had drawn from them something besides her weekly stipend: she
had assimilated a faculty for logical deductions made with lightning
swiftness, which is not characteristic of women, and is rare among
men. Often, in fact, its possessor confuses it with intuition,
because the rapidity of such automatic reasoning is so great that
its method readily escapes the attention of the one using it. In the
present instance, the girl in her distress was totally unconscious
of the fact that she had reasoned with exactness from a group of
circumstances within her knowledge. Yet, this was the case, and to
such reasoning, doubtless, rather than to intuition, was the strength
of her suspicion due. Intuitive perception she had to the full, and
to it, it is likely, she owed some measure of the belief that now
obsessed her, but its origin had been in the reasoning power alone,
which she had exercised involuntarily, even unconsciously.

The first fact on which she builded had been the expression of terror
on Masters’ face, when she chanced upon him in the wood at dawn. Now,
she could no longer believe that fancy had played a trick on her. On
the contrary, she was sure of the emotion he had shown, and, too,
sure of the sinister significance of it. It meant guilt. Masters was
not a timid girl, to be filled with fright at the unheralded coming
of another in the forest. She believed, rather, that he possessed
an abundance of physical courage, whatever his lack of the moral.
Nevertheless, at her call, he had shown abject fear. The signs of it
had vanished in the twinkling of an eye; but they had been present
for an appreciable length of time. Since there could have been
nothing else to cause him alarm in that place, this must have been
the fear of discovery, which only guilt could explain. What that
guilt might be, it were easy to guess, if one took thought of the
event that had so recently befallen, where death had been avoided
by the merest hazard of fate. May did not formulate her reasoning
in such wise, but this was the nature of it. From it, she drew the
conclusion that drove her forth alone into the night. As she went her
way up the slope, intuition whispered that the hideous suspicion was
truth.

The moon was just thrusting its bulk of gold over the wooded ranges
of the eastern shore, and its radiance flooded the ascent, up which
she mounted with a step that was unfaltering, though the heart was
sick within her. She could see very clearly, and guided her course
without hesitation toward the point at which she had encountered the
engineer.

When she reached the bit of underbrush in which she had stopped
short on first hearing Masters, May peered through the purple dusk,
and readily made out the outline of the sapling beneath which the
engineer had stood when she accosted him. She at once made her way
quickly to a position immediately below its canopy of branches.
It was well foliaged, yet not so thickly as to prevent her from
observing freely. If, at this moment, anyone had asked her what she
expected to find there aloft, she would have been utterly unable to
make a coherent explanation, and indeed it must have been instinct,
rather than reason, that now guided her in the search, for, without
understanding in the least why she did so, she stared up into the
branches with fixed intensity, her heart beating like the sound of
battle-drums in her ears. Presently, then, her gaze fastened on a
line of shadow, high among the branches, and on this she held her
attention concentrated, though there seemed nothing in the appearance
to justify an absorption so complete. It was, perhaps, instinct again
that caused her to feel the importance of this variation from the
green black of the foliage. Whether that, or the leaping processes
of reason, she was impelled to search out the meaning of the shadow
aloft among the branches. She laid hold of the lower branches, and
easily swung up into the tree.

May mounted swiftly until the shadow was within reach of her hand.
Yet she could not distinguish it clearly on account of a branch,
which held a screen of leaves between it and the moon. Putting out
her hand, she bent the bough aside, so that the light shone on the
thing that had drawn her to the spot. She saw a rifle!

The weapon had been fastened to the trunk of the sapling, at a point
where one of the larger branches made a fork. The stock had been
secured in a position that permitted easy adjustment, by means of
two ropes, which ran to other branches, so placed that tightening
cords would vary the mark toward which the rifle was aimed.
Masters, from his technical skill as an engineer, would have found
little difficulty in making the arrangement to his satisfaction.
May realized at a glance that there could be no doubt as to the
actuality. Hartley Masters had deliberately attempted to murder Saxe
Temple. A wave of loathing swept over her as she grasped this final
confirmation of the hideous thing she had suspected. In the flood
of abhorrence for the crime, the last remnants of her love were
overwhelmed.

Only one thing baffled her in the understanding of the event. She
saw clearly that, the position of the seats in the dining-room being
familiar to the engineer, it had been simplicity itself for him so
to dispose the rifle in the tree as to have it trained on the spot
occupied by Temple’s breast as the unsuspecting victim sat at table.
It was hardly likely, moreover, that any other would be exposed
to peril, since the smallness of the room was such that there was
not sufficient space between sideboard and chairs on that side of
the table for Mrs. Dustin to pass in her service of the meals.
The deliberate malignity of the plot was appalling to May, as she
considered this naked revelation of it. She was pallid, shuddering,
nauseated.

The one thing that puzzled her for a time was the means by which
the criminal had been able to secure the discharge of the rifle
in his absence. It was plain that he had devised some method, so
that he himself should be above suspicion, in the possession of a
perfect alibi. It would, of course, be absurd for anyone to bring
an accusation against him, when it was the common knowledge of all
that he had been seated at the very table with the one against whom
the attempt had been made. Yet, she failed to penetrate the method
employed by him in firing the piece, and for a long time she puzzled
over this in vain.

Then, at last, her eyes were caught by a fragment of cord, which
hung from the trigger of the rifle. A brief examination showed
her that the loose end was charred by fire, and immediately she
guessed the nature of the device that had been employed. She knew
that Masters in his work had had much experience with explosives,
and, in consequence, with fuses of various sorts. She understood on
reflection that he had used in this instance a fuse of such length as
to permit his lighting it a long time before the moment of firing.
Afterward, he had been able to leave the rifle unattended, confident
that at the instant designed by him it would be fired automatically
by the burning of the fuse. But, a minute later, it occurred to her
that the trigger required to be pulled backward in order to discharge
the weapon. The parting of the string she had discovered could by
no means effect this. She had let the obscuring branch swing back
into place the while she meditated. Now, she again thrust it out of
the way, so that the light shone in brightly, as she bent to another
scrutiny of the rifle. Her investigation was instantly rewarded, for
she perceived a coil of spring, which ran from the trigger to one of
the branches. Its blackness had hidden it from her eyes hitherto. The
discovery made all clear. The cord had held the trigger forward in
its usual place, acting against the power of the spring. Then, the
burning of the string by the fuse had left the trigger unprotected
against the pull of the spring, which, suddenly effective, had fired
the rifle. The ingenuity of the scheme confounded the girl, as she
sat staring at the evidences of treachery. Yet, in that moment of
anguish, she was moved to murmur a prayer of thankfulness that the
knowledge of her lover’s character had come to her in time to save
her life from misery and degradation as his wife.

After a long time crouched there in the tree, May bestirred herself
slowly and clambered down, leaving the rifle as she had found it,
with the bit of charred string hanging, and the spring holding the
trigger pulled, as it had been at the moment of the shot. It did not
occur to her that it might be wiser to carry away these proofs of
attempted murder. Indeed, in that first understanding of the guilt
of Masters, she was too distraught to think clearly. She could only
feel the vicarious shame that was hers by reason of him to whom she
had accorded her love. Nor did she just then speculate much as to the
exact motive that had actuated the engineer. She took it for granted
that he had been influenced to his course by motives of greed, as was
the fact in the main. She supposed that he had thought the murder
of Saxe Temple would cause a delay in the search, by which he might
profit to the extent of finding the treasure himself. It did not
occur to her that an older and more primitive passion than greed,
even, one more savage, too, might have driven him on to the crime.
In her horrified amazement over the deed itself, she quite forgot
the jealousy that had sprung in her heart by reason of her lover’s
devotion to Margaret West. Yet, at that very moment, the man who had
just striven in vain to redden his hands with the blood of a fellow
creature, was with Margaret West in a bowered nook of the shore,
pouring forth the story of his love in passionate phrases.




CHAPTER XII

THE SECRET VAULT


May passed a sleepless night, wearying her brain in a futile endeavor
to see her path clearly. She felt that, for the sake of what had
been, she could not bring herself to accuse Masters before the
others, or even privately to his face. Yet, her manifest duty lay
in some step that should prevent another effort by him. She was
convinced that he would dare no more, when aware of the fact that
there was a witness to bear testimony as to his guilt, and in this
she probably reasoned justly. In the end, she decided to write him
a note, informing him as to her knowledge, and warning him against
further pursuit of his evil plans, or of herself. She would have the
missive in readiness to hand to him on the occasion of his first
appearance at the cottage.

When she had thus determined, it was time to dress, for the day
was two hours old. As soon as she was clad with her accustomed
nicety, she wrote the letter to the engineer, and then descended to
breakfast, pale and wan, with heavy shadows under her eyes, but
vastly relieved that, at last, she had reached a decision as to her
conduct of the affair.

The letter thus prepared was not destined for delivery that day.
Masters did not appear at the cottage. As a matter of fact, even
his egotism was convinced of the sincerity and unchangeableness of
Margaret West’s rejection of his suit. He found to his despair and
wrath that the girl was totally irresponsive to his most ardent
pleadings. The disappointment to him was the keener because it was
so wholly unexpected. The girl had shown pleasure in his society
from the first, and he had anticipated an easy victory, despite his
jealousy of Saxe. Nevertheless, she repulsed him with a finality not
to be denied. His failure was the more exasperating to him by reason
of the fact that the cause baffled his every effort of understanding.

The truth of the matter lay in a paradox concerning magnetism.
Masters possessed in an unusual degree the magnetism of sex. At the
outset, Margaret had felt this, without in the least apprehending the
nature of the attraction exerted on her. She attributed it rather
to his handsome face and buoyant manner, allied with his undoubted
cleverness. Later on, as the man’s passion for her developed, this
same force in him, which had charmed in its subtler manifestations,
became offensive to her sensitiveness. Still without any suspicion
of the cause, she felt herself repelled, where before she had been
attracted. By so much the more as his desire waxed and was revealed,
by so much the more he grew repulsive. In the end, he became
altogether detestable to her, and in dismissing him she made her
feeling plain.

So, Masters did not come that day to the cottage, and the note
that lay warm on May’s bosom was undelivered. Yet his dual lack of
success in love and in murder did not suffice to quench the spirit
of the man. Greed and passion inflamed his hatred of the rival who
threatened to destroy his hopes. As he went from Margaret at her
bidding, his brain was already busy with new schemes by which to
possess himself of the miser’s gold and of the woman he loved. The
first step toward such consummation must be the death of Saxe Temple.
He was furious against the fate that had saved his enemy at the
first trial; he was determined that at the second there should be no
escape.

The night following that on which the shooting had occurred, Roy
Morton passed through an experience that afforded him grounds for
apprehension, although he kept the affair secret for a time, in
the confident expectation of making further discoveries without
assistance from his friends.

It was about two o’clock in the morning when he suddenly awakened out
of a sound sleep. He attributed this awakening to a subtle warning
from his never-sleeping sixth sense. Nevertheless, it is a fact that,
in the course of an adventurous career, he had acquired the habit of
sleeping very lightly, so that he might be aroused instantly by the
slightest sound of an unwonted sort, and it is probable that, on this
occasion, some noise disturbed him. Be that as it may, he abruptly
found himself broad awake and listening intently.

There was no sound anywhere within the cottage. Through the open
window came the rhythmic chant of myriad insects, the rustling of
leaves caressed by the night wind--nothing more. Roy was inclined
to believe that he had been aroused for no adequate cause. Yet, he
was disinclined to dismiss the warning of his precious sixth sense
without further investigation. He got out of bed, threw a bath-robe
over his pajamas, and set forth on a tour of investigation. There
was still some moonlight shining through the windows of the hall,
by which he was able to assure himself that nothing extraordinary
was visible, nor did he hear any unusual sound. He descended into
the lower hall, and there, too, his examination failed to show
aught amiss. He moved with great caution, in order to avoid giving
warning of his presence to a possible intruder, and peered into the
office and the dining-room. Everywhere, he found all in order. He
betook himself finally to the door of the music-room, which he found
almost closed, but not quite. He pushed it open with much care, and
bending forward, looked into the room. On the instant, his eyes were
attracted by a light that shone clearly against the east wall of the
room. By this illumination, he perceived a man, who knelt, holding
a pocket-torch in his left hand, while his right was thrust into an
opening in the wall.

Roy Morton stared in unqualified amazement. For the moment, his
interest was centered on the aperture in the wall of the room, rather
than on the man who knelt on the floor before it, with his arm
thrust into the recess up to the shoulder. In that instant, Roy was
seized with the conviction that he had stumbled upon the treasure
of Abernethey by means of a monition from his sixth sense, and his
heart was filled with gladness, both for the sake of his friend’s
fortune thus at last secured, and for the sake of his own pride in
being the active agent in that consummation. He had no doubt whatever
that the man crouched on the floor was Masters, though the face was
unrecognizable in the shadow. He even suffered a little pang of
jealousy that the fellow should have succeeded in discovering the
golden treasury, while he and his friends had so signally failed. He
comforted wounded vanity, however, with the trite reflection that
all is well that ends well. It seemed, indeed, that the affair had
now become simplicity itself, since there remained only to watch the
operations of the thief, and ultimately to possess himself of the
gold in his friend’s behalf.

It appeared to the observer that the position of the man on the
floor left him subject to great disadvantage under attack, and that,
therefore, it were wise not to delay action. Roy desired to capture
the marauder single-handed for the sake of his own greater glory.
He had no question as to his ability to overcome the engineer in a
hand-to-hand contest, despite the fellow’s excellent physique. With
the idea of taking his enemy by surprise, he pushed the door farther
ajar, to make space for a leap forward. Notwithstanding his caution,
the hinges creaked with a sudden, harsh noise, which crashed through
the silence of the night. In the same second, Roy sprang.

At the sound of the opening door, the torch had clicked into
darkness--there was the slithering of rubber-shod feet across the
floor. As Roy came upon emptiness where had been the man, he heard
the rustling of the drawn shade of a window. He saw dimly against
the outer light the silhouette of the thief in the opening. Before
he could move, it had vanished. He was after it with all speed, but,
by the time he stood on the ground outside, he could neither see
nor hear aught to give an idea as to the direction of the flight.
He went forward blindly, moving here and there haphazard, pausing
often to listen. There was no reward to his efforts, and, after a few
minutes, realizing the uselessness of longer search, he returned to
the cottage, where he entered the open window.

It was just as he dropped to the floor that a cheering thought came
to Roy. The man had carried away nothing in his flight. At the moment
of the door’s creaking, the hand had been withdrawn from the cavity
within the wall, and it had been empty. Evidently, the depredator
had been interrupted just when he had succeeded in coming on the
secret place of the gold. As he realized this, Roy went forward
quickly in the direction of the piano-lamp, found matches, made a
light, and turned eagerly toward the recess in the wall. As he knelt
in the place so recently occupied by that other visitor, there was
light enough to see clearly, and he beheld the safe set behind the
wainscoting. The steel doors stood ajar; the first glance showed that
the receptacle was empty.

Amazement was Roy’s dominant emotion for the first few moments. It
gave place to chagrin. He strove to disbelieve the evidence of his
eyes, but disbelief was impossible. The safe was empty. He thrust his
hand within, and felt about carefully, even as the man had done--only
to find nowhere so much as a scrap of paper that might have held a
clue. The shock of the disappointment stunned him. For a long time,
he sat before the opening in the wall, squatting motionless on his
haunches, nursing a swiftly rising rage.

Roy stood up at last, with an ejaculation of disgust. Then, curiosity
laid hold on him, and he began a careful examination of the vault’s
mechanism. He pushed the inner doors of steel shut, but without
turning the handle to shoot the bolt. Afterward, he scrutinized
the portion of the wainscoting that was swung outward to reveal
the safe. He moved it to and fro, a little way slowly, finding
that it was very delicately balanced, so that it responded to the
lightest touch. He inspected the bolts with which it was fitted,
and sought to understand exactly the method of their operation, but
this persistently escaped him, nothwithstanding his knowledge of
mechanical appliances. It was while he was pulling at one of the
bolts that the impetus of his effort sent the section of wainscoting
into its usual place as a part of the wall. Roy tried to catch it in
order to prevent its closing, but he was just too late. He tugged
at a projection of the carving, only to find that the masked door
resisted his strength. He realized that the bolts had been thrust
into their sockets by some device automatic in the act of closing.
Greatly annoyed, he began a hunt for the secret spring by which the
operation of the bolts must be controlled. In this he failed. Try as
he would, the wainscoting rested there before him in an immobility
beyond measure exasperating. He went over the entire surface with
painstaking care, pressing or pulling at each hollow or projection,
and always there was the same irritating lack of response. Roy, with
his chin thrust forward belligerently, toiled on in countless futile
experiments, only to confess defeat. He was worn with fatigue from
the monotonous labor when at last a distant sound startled him, and
he looked around, to discover that day had come. Fearful lest he be
discovered there, he fled to his room, disgusted by the fiasco. For
the first time in his life, he sneered at that delusive faculty, the
sixth sense.




CHAPTER XIII

THE CLUE


To the astonishment of Roy Morton and May Thurston, this day also
passed without the appearance of the engineer at the cottage. The
girl, at first experiencing some alarm over this protracted absence,
was afterward filled with relief, when it occurred to her that
Masters was keeping away because he had finally abandoned his evil
intentions. She felt convinced that the failure of his attempt to
murder Temple had brought him to realization of the heinousness of
his conduct. The thought afforded her great satisfaction, since it
relieved her of any necessity for action against him. The change in
the situation so cheered her that she accepted with animation Roy’s
invitation to walk, and the two passed a particularly agreeable hour
in strolling through the woods, finding each topic of conversation
charming, and almost forgetting that such an one as the engineer
encumbered the earth.

There came another development in the evening, when the four friends
were smoking and chatting, as was their custom after the ladies had
retired for the night. They were in the music-room with Saxe at the
piano, where he had been playing from time to time. Now, however, he
had ceased, and rested motionless, with his eyes fixed on the sheet
of manuscript left by Abernethey, in a wearisome wondering as to the
message that might lie concealed within that bare presentment of the
song of gold--as he had come to call the composition. Billy Walker
had steadfastly maintained his belief that the clue to the treasure
was hidden there, and Saxe was impressed by the idea, although his
reason declared it folly.

Presently, Billy aroused himself from the luxury of the morris chair,
where he had been communing with an especially black cigar, heaved
himself erect with a groan, and crossed the room to the piano. He
stood for a little while in silence, staring down at the written page
on the rack.

“What’s that?” he demanded. He pointed to the three measures that
stood alone at the head of the sheet.

[Music]

The phrase to which Billy Walker pointed was scrawled in a fashion
that was rather slovenly as compared with the remainder of the
manuscript. Hitherto, in spite of the many times he had studied the
manuscript, Saxe had given small heed to this fragment of writing,
which preceded the song of gold. Now, however, at his friend’s
instigation, he examined it with scrupulous care before he spoke.
Then, he shook his head in discouragement, as he struck the notes on
the keyboard.

“It doesn’t mean anything, Billy,” he declared.

“But what’s it there for, if it doesn’t mean anything?” the other
persisted.

“Why,” Saxe answered, “I suppose it’s simply that the old man had
some sort of an idea, and jotted down a note concerning it. You see,
it’s at the top of the page. He did nothing more with it. Afterward,
he used the same sheet to write the gold song on. He was a miser, you
know.”

“Yes, I know,” Billy conceded. “All the same, I think, in this
instance, he would have been comparatively extravagant. I still
believe that the bit there has some significance.”

Saxe shook his head emphatically.

“It can’t mean anything,” he repeated, drearily. He was fast yielding
to discouragement.

For a long minute the two were silent, regarding the manuscript
intently, with knit brows. Then, of a sudden, Billy’s rough voice
boomed forth a question:

“Aren’t there letters on a staff of music? What are the letters
there?”

Saxe smiled, in some disdain.

“Much good may they do you!” he said; and his tone was sarcastic.
“The letters are, B, E, D, A, C. Might be a word in Magyar, for all I
know. It isn’t from any language more common, I fancy.”

Billy snorted indignantly.

“It’s not altogether impossible that it should be a word from some
language or other,” he answered, stoutly. “But we’ll investigate it
more closely on an English basis first. Now, what--exactly--does that
Italian word mean, there over the music. And what’s it doing there,
anyhow?”

Saxe laughed outright at the utter simplicity of the question from
the musician’s standpoint.

“It’s a word to guide the player in his interpretation,” he replied.
“It means that this particular phrase should be played with great
slowness.”

Billy pondered this statement for a time, then vented a lusty sigh of
disappointment. Presently, however, his expression took on animation
again, for curiosity had hit on a new point of interest.

“What are those two vertical lines doing there in the middle?” he
asked, eagerly.

Saxe shrugged his shoulders resignedly.

“They, too, mean nothing--absolutely nothing!” he exclaimed. “They’re
in the same class as ‘Bedac’.”

“According to my theory concerning this affair,” Billy asserted
with an air of dogmatism, “you are wrong in thus dismissing, one
after another, the possibilities of the situation. Now, we have
before us a manuscript, which is undoubtedly the work of the man who
left this gold to you, if you could find it. He explicitly stated
in his communication to you that the clue to the hiding-place was
clear enough. You might infer, since the money was left you in this
fashion, that the clue would be of a musical sort. He was a musician.
Music was his one specialty. It is also your own specialty. It is,
then, the most natural thing in the world to suppose that, in
one way or another, music would play a chief part in this matter.
Following the sequence of facts, we come next to one that follows
logically in the line of argument. For we come upon a piece of music,
which is in manuscript. It is actually, we are convinced, a piece
composed by the late Mr. Abernethey. We have ascertained from his
secretary that it is written in his own handwriting. Finally, we are
sure that it is the only thing coming directly from him that there
is in the house, which offers by its individuality a possibility
of having a cryptic meaning of the sort required by us in the
prosecution of the search.

“I repeat my firm belief that in this page of music lies the clue
to the late Mr. Abernethey’s secret. If I am right, then any single
character on this sheet may be of vital importance. You sneer
at ‘Bedac,’ which at first glance seems gibberish, and nothing
more. There remains the possibility, nevertheless, that it may
have a meaning of prime importance to you. A fortune may depend
on your learning the meaning of that word. Don’t dismiss it after
just one glance. Don’t sneer at it--and those two vertical lines!
You say, they are void of purport. The fact is that they don’t
belong there--from your musical standpoint. Well, they’re there,
notwithstanding. The late Mr. Abernethey put them there. Perhaps they
stood for something to him, in spite of the fact that they don’t to
you. Anyhow, don’t sneer at them--yet. Wait, at least, until you’ve
really studied them. As far as our present knowledge goes, this paper
must hold the clue. I tell you, it’s worth working on--hard!”

The harsh, sonorous voice in this long harangue had soon cut short
the desultory chat between Roy and David, who had listened almost
from the beginning with attention, while smiling a little at the
earnestness of the speaker in pursuing his argument.

“Well, Billy,” David remarked, “you’re the one to work out the
problem on logical lines. You’ve told the rest of us often enough
that we can’t reason.” The other two nodded assent, smiling
cheerfully on the nonplussed oracle.

“I’m horribly handicapped by my ignorance of music,” he confessed,
wryly. Then, his rough features settled into lines of resolve, and
his voice fairly roared in the echoing room: “But, by the Lord! I’ll
do it--I’ll work that thing out, if I have to learn music first!”

There came a shout of laughter from the three; the vision of Billy
Walker thus engaged was too ludicrous! Notwithstanding their
merriment, there came no relaxation of the set purpose in the
speaker’s face. It was evident that he was wholly sincere in his
announcement. Indeed, no sooner had the mirth exhausted itself than
he craved a first lesson.

“Tell me about the letters that are on the staff,” he besought Saxe,
who good-naturedly complied, with a smile still on his lips.

“Then, that’s all the letters there are in musical notation,”
Billy exclaimed, when the instructor paused. There was distinct
disappointment in his voice. “Only, A, B, C, D, E, F, G. That’s
bad. Yet there are two vowels, A and E, and E is the most important
vowel.” He fell silent, standing moveless before the piano, with his
gaze fixed on the manuscript in a brown study. “Bedac!” he muttered,
after a little; and Saxe, hearing, smiled again. “And those vertical
lines!” he mused aloud. Saxe kindly volunteered some information
as to the purpose served by bars to separate the measures. When he
ceased, Billy propounded a question, which was an affirmation: “Then,
there is a measure with nothing in it?”

“Oh, in a way!” Saxe replied. “Only, this isn’t really a measure.
It’s merely a mistake the old man happened to make--that’s all.”

“Why isn’t it a measure?” came the crisp demand.

“Because, if it were really meant for a measure, it would contain
something, either notes or rests, or both.”

“You may thank your lucky stars I’m not a musician,” Billy declared,
and he snorted loudly in contempt. “You’re hide-bound, so to speak,
by the technique of your art. Thank heaven, I have an open mind.
Because the thing is different, you assert that it can’t possibly
have any meaning. For my part, on the contrary, the fact that it’s
different is just why I suspect it to be of importance. I give the
late Mr. Abernethey credit for some cleverness. Also, I deem him to
have been capable of a bit of originality. The manner of his will
suggests that possibility, at least. If he amused himself by evolving
a musical cipher, I’ll warrant he didn’t construct a mere tonic
sol-fa--whatever that may be--which any piano-banger could sing at
sight to this tune here. I’ve always thought that much knowledge of
technique was deadening. Now, I know it. The critic knows technique
perfectly; the genius never does. Here, I’ll take it. You’ll do no
good, muddling over it!” With this pronouncement, Billy Walker rudely
leaned forward, and snatched the sheet of music from the rack, and
stalked away with it to the morris chair, leaving Saxe well content
with such ending of the inquisition.

It was a half-hour later. Saxe had joined Roy and David, and the
three were talking pleasantly of many things as they smoked.
Throughout the whole time, Billy had remained huddled in the
easy chair, his cigar, unlighted, clenched firmly between his
teeth, his fierce, shaggy brows drawn down, his little, dull eyes
set steadfastly on the sheet of music, which lay on his knees.
Occasionally, there sounded an unintelligible mumbling from his lips,
or a raucous grunt of dissatisfaction. Then, with disconcerting
abruptness, the scholar lifted his head, ran his hands roughly
through the bristling, unkempt thatch of hair, and exploded into
Gargantuan laughter.

The three regarded him in perplexity, smiling a little under the
contagion of his merriment. He gave no heed to their questions for a
full minute, but continued his rollicking mirth.

“Well, I’ve made the first step toward the treasure,” he announced,
at last. The rolling volume of his voice was more thunderous even
than its wont.

Came a chorus of ejaculations and questions from the others, as they
sprang to their feet, and crowded about him.

Billy waved his hand imperiously for silence.

“But it’s only the first step, remember!” he warned. “The first step!
And, incidentally, it proves that I was right about the value of this
document.” He flourished the music aloft, in a gesture of triumph.

“Tell us! Tell us!” was the cry.

Billy regarded his friends quizzically.

“It’s only the first step that I have taken, remember,” he
admonished. “But, as Saint Augustine said, it’s the first step that
counts. The miser’s gold is somewhere at the bottom of the lake.”

There followed an interval of astounded silence. It was broken by Roy
with an exclamation of bewilderment:

“But--” he began. Then, he halted in confusion. He had been on
the point of saying something concerning the secret vault in the
music-room, and had checked himself only just in time. The others,
however, had given no attention to his utterance, and he sighed
with relief. It had flashed on him that his own knowledge in a way
corroborated the statement by Billy, inasmuch as he found the vault
empty.

“How? How?” Saxe was clamoring; David added his insistence.

Billy Walker preened himself with all the pride of a great
discoverer, as well he might.

“It was simplicity itself,” he assured them. “It was only necessary
for me to learn music, and the matter soon became clear.” Saxe and
the others fairly gaped at the naïve assumption on the part of
their friend that, in five minutes, he had mastered the art, but
they did not care to question his complacency just then. “Being
unhampered by over-much technique,” the oracle continued, with
buoyant self-satisfaction, “I was able to investigate with an open
mind, examining all the facts.” He paused to grin exultantly on the
expectant trio, and then resumed his explanation:

“I had before me two determined facts, which gave no information in
themselves, but required perhaps only the addition of other facts to
become significant. Now, observe this lone bit of music at the head
of the page.” He held up the sheet, so that the others could note the
phrase at the top.

[Music]

“The first fact of which I was possessed,” Billy went on, “thanks
to the tuition in music afforded me by Saxe, was this: that the
letters of the fragment are, B, E, D, A, C, in such order. At the
outset of my logical examination, I attempted variations in this
order, as offering the simplest solution of the puzzle. After some
experimenting, I became convinced that the secret was not concealed
in a changed sequence of the letters. Next, then, I set myself to a
consideration of the second fact. This consisted in the knowledge
that the bit of music contained a measure that was not a measure.
That is to say, there was the marking of a measure by two vertical
lines, but nothing in that measure, neither notes nor rests.
This impressed me as of importance in all probability. The same
fact that led Saxe to disregard it, led me to scrutinize it with
particularity.” Again, Billy paused, to allow his hearers a moment in
which to meditate on the shrewdness of his reasoning. When he went on
speaking, his voice carried a note of increased contentment:

“Above this measure that is no measure, this measure that is empty,
I perceived a pointer, of a size sufficient even to have attracted
the notice of my friend here, hide-bound in technique as he is--but
it did not. The pointer directed attention straight to a letter--a
letter placed exactly over the measure that isn’t a measure because
it’s empty. That letter thus pointed out is L. It fitted very well
into the blank place with the other letters. So, where before we had
only, B, E, D, A, C, we now have, B, E, D, L, A, C.” Billy ceased
speaking, and surveyed the others happily.

“Well, why don’t you go on?” David demanded, impatiently.

Billy regarded the questioner in genuine astonishment, tinged with
contempt. His gaze darted to the other two, and, on realizing that
they, as well, were still uncomprehending, he groaned.

“Non-rationalizing nincompoops!” was his candid murmur of
reprobation. “Oh, well, I shall explain, if it be possible to your
understanding,” he said gently, with an assumption of infinite
patience. “As you musical sharps are aware, the musical notation
comprises only seven letters, namely----”

“Oh, never mind that!” Saxe cried. “We know!”

“Pardon me,” was the retort. “You only know it as a matter of
technical knowledge, not as a fact from which to reason. The point is
that there’s no K in the musical scale.”

“Well?” The monosyllable snapped from Roy. His face was set intently,
the chin a little forward, the eyes hard.

“The thing is simply this,” Billy answered, beaming. “The late Mr.
Abernethey, on account of the lack of the letter K in the musical
notation, was compelled to resort to an expedient. He could not
indicate the word ‘Lake’ on his cipher, since he was without either
L or K. He evaded the difficulty by employing the initial letter
from a word of direction, Largo, which provided the necessary L, and
he got around the lack of the letter K by using the French word for
Lake--_lac_. This fragment at the head of the sheet spells for us,
‘Bedlac’.” He pointed to the phrase again, as he concluded.

“So, we have only to do a bit of translating from the French _lac_
into the English lake, and then to amplify by supplying the obvious
preposition and article, and the writing declares clearly: ‘The Bed
of the Lake.’ It now remains for us to study this page until we learn
just where under the water of the lake out there the gold is lying.
Somewhere, somehow, this music tells!”




CHAPTER XIV

THE EPISODE OF THE LAUNCH


The clue discovered by Billy Walker was accepted without hesitation.
No secret was made of the information thus obtained as the first
progress in the search for the gold, and an air of excitement
prevailed in and about the cottage. Jake, especially, was all agog
with interest in the new development, and took an active part in
the subsequent operations, since the four friends now spent much of
their time on the water, hoping by some fortunate chance to come on
a suggestion for further guidance. They went cruising out of sheer
desperation, having no precise idea to follow until more should be
learned from the manuscript. All pinned their faith to the music
left by the miser. Each spent hours in study of the scrawled notes
in the quest of added discovery, but all efforts were futile. Even
the redoubtable Billy himself admitted humiliating defeat. Yet, he
was in no wise cast down by the failure of the moment. He was sure
of ultimate victory for the orderly processes of reason. Roy, on
the other hand, retained his confidence in the final revelation that
had been foretold by his industrious sixth sense, and David shared
this optimistic trust in the occult. As for Saxe, when day after day
passed without a hint of new knowledge concerning the gold, he might
easily have become hopeless, had it not been for the diversion of
interest offered by his love-affair. For now the manner of Margaret
West toward him was such that sometimes he dared believe it possible
to win her.

May Thurston was assured by the continued absence of Masters that
he had abandoned further vicious effort. In this view, the girl did
the indefatigable scoundrel less than justice. As a matter of fact,
the engineer was very busy indeed. He had kept away from the cottage
because he feared that May might have guessed his agency in the
attack directed against Saxe, although he had taken the precaution
to remove the rifle and its accessories from the sapling on the
day after the shooting. He suspected, too, that May would learn
from Margaret the truth concerning his treachery in love--in which
suspicion he was quite wrong--and he deemed himself safer out of the
injured girl’s sight. So, he kept himself hidden from the household
of the cottage, while still devoting himself to malevolent schemes.
Hope developed in him that he might yet win Margaret West--if only
Saxe were out of the path. In addition, the removal of this rival
would allow him another chance, even if brief, to search for the
treasure. He was determined that Saxe should die, straightway. To
that consummation, he set himself with cold-blooded ingenuity.

It was on a splendid morning a week later that the four friends
were taking another trip in the motor-boat, to examine the extreme
northern end of the lake. Jake was at the steering-wheel, as always,
for the abundant sunken rocks and shoals forbade a stranger as pilot
in these waters. Roy sat beside the boatman, as his custom was, while
Saxe and David were in chairs behind, and Billy, puffing his black
cigar, lounged contentedly in the stern.

Saxe shook his head impatiently, as the smell of gasoline, instead
of the balsamic fragrance of the shore, afflicted his nostrils.
He spoke of the annoyance to David, who agreed that the scent was
unusually strong in the boat that day.

“Must be a bit of a leak somewhere,” David vouchsafed. He called a
question to Roy, who merely shook his head by way of answer. “They
wouldn’t get the smell up there, anyhow,” David continued, to Saxe.
“You see, it’s floating round in the bilge right under us, so that we
get the worst of it.”

Saxe had just time to wonder, without much real concern, whether or
not it were quite prudent of Billy to be smoking where so large a
quantity of gasoline was loose--then, the catastrophe came--came with
lightning swiftness--a huge burst of flame enveloped them.

In that first second of horror, common instinct driving, the five
men plunged into the lake. The motor-boat sped on, the engines
still throbbing. Saxe, as he rose from the leap, and tossed his
head to clear the water from his eyes, chanced to be facing in its
direction, and could see only a swirling mass of flames, darting
onward toward the shore. Then, a cry startled him to concern over his
companions. He turned quickly, and, to his relief, saw four heads
appearing above the water. In the same instant, relief yielded to
fear, for one of them vanished below the surface. It was David.

Saxe, who was a practised swimmer, shot forward to the rescue in a
powerful racing stroke. As he raised his head from the water a moment
later, horror gripped him anew--now, only two heads were showing.
Billy had disappeared. But his emotion changed to delight as he
covered the short distance between him and the place where David
had sunk, for suddenly two heads rose above the water. He saw David
supported in the arms of Billy, who was treading water in a lazy
fashion all his own.

That was the end of the actual peril. Saxe aided David on the side
opposite Billy, and the two had no difficulty, since David, though
unable to swim, retained his coolness, leaving himself limp to the
control of his rescuers. The land was less than a hundred yards
away, and thither the five wrecked men went, and clambered out upon
the shore, bedraggled, dripping, scorched, half-angry, half-dazed by
the suddenness of it all, but wholly thankful for their escape from
the dual dangers of fire and flood. The chief mourner was Jake, who
lamented with tears over the loss of the boat he had learned to love.

Presently, the others began to rally Billy Walker on his unsuspected
skill in the water.

“When in the world did you ever learn to swim?” Roy demanded. “You
didn’t know how when you were in the university.”

“No such thing!” Billy retorted, huffily. “I could swim before I was
seven years old.”

“But you never did swim during all the time I’ve known you,” Saxe
exclaimed, astounded by the revelation.

“Certainly not!” was the crisp reply. “Why should I? Each person
has just so much energy to draw on for his use, for all purposes
whatever. I don’t fritter my energy away on trifles, like swimming
for mere amusement. I prefer to employ my vital forces in
intellectual pursuits.” He paused to grin maliciously at the others.
“That’s where I differ from you chaps--yes! But, when the occasion
arises, why, then I swim.”

Roy and Jake made a trip to the ruins of the motor-boat, which had
beached itself on the north shore, a quarter of a mile to the east of
the point reached by the men. Meantime, the three others started at
a leisurely pace to the west, skirting the shore until they rounded
the lake, and turned to the south on their way to the cottage. Their
rate of progress was so slow that within a half-hour Roy and Jake
rejoined them, and with this completion of their number the speed
was quickened. It was a full five miles to the cottage, but the sun
and the breeze soon dried their clothing; the paths by which Jake
led them wound through charming forest stretches; they were happy
anew over the gracious gift of life. So, they swung forward with free
footsteps through the miles. Even Billy Walker, who ordinarily would
groan if required to stroll the distance from the cottage to the
boat-house, seemed for once to have put off lethargy, for he marched
at the head of the procession with Jake, and set the pace smartly.

The full significance of the disaster was not revealed until
the afternoon of the next day, when Jake returned from a second
inspection of the wreck. His round, wizened face displayed evidences
of excitement, and his tiny eyes were snapping, as he rushed into
the presence of the four friends, who were taking their ease on the
landing-stage of the boat-house.

“I found out somethin’!” he announced. There was a note of savageness
in his voice that puzzled the hearers. “I been up to see the
_Shirtso_, and I found out somethin’!” He stared with gloomy eyes at
Roy. “I found out what caused that-thar leak o’ gas. The feed pipe
was cut!”

“You mean--” Roy questioned, tensely.

“The feed pipe was cut,” Jake repeated, There was rage in his voice
now. “And somebody done it a-purpose--cuss ’m!”




CHAPTER XV

THE CHART


It was the belief of Saxe and his friends that the person guilty of
the outrage against them was none other than Hartley Masters. Now, at
last, Roy confided to his associates the adventure in the night, when
he had discovered the presence of the safe hidden within the wall.
The others flouted him as he had anticipated over his failure to
capture the intruder and his subsequent inability to learn the secret
of the spring in the wainscoting. They accepted without hesitation
his assurance that the night prowler had been Masters, and their
wrath flamed hot against the engineer, who in his later effort had
not scrupled to attempt the murder of five men. They determined to
take active measures against the fellow for the sake of their own
safety. Roy volunteered to wage a campaign against the enemy, to seek
out his whereabouts, to trail him, to get evidence against him, and
finally to make him prisoner. The others, meantime, would continue
their quest for further clues to the treasure. First of all, they
busied themselves with hunting for the concealed safe, after its
exact situation had been indicated by Roy, and three days passed in
fruitless experimenting on the intricacies of the carved wainscoting.

Roy visited the hamlet at the foot of the lake, where was situated
the hotel in which the engineer had been a guest. He learned, to
his disappointment, that Masters had taken his departure a week
before. He assured himself that this departure had been a real one by
inquiries at the station. Further questioning of residents elicited
the information that the engineer had thereafter been seen by none.
Nevertheless, Roy was far from being convinced by this information
that the engineer had actually taken himself off. He was, on the
contrary, almost, if not quite, certain that Masters had merely made
use of the train for an ostensible departure, in order to avoid
the possibility of his presence in the neighborhood appearing as
evidence against him in the event of any suspicion that might arise.
Afterward, as Roy imagined, he had returned to some out-of-the-way
place in the forest, where he could eat and sleep unmolested, and
thence spy out the land for the execution of his villainous projects.
Doubtless in his employment as an engineer, he had often lived
roughly, and the season of the year would make life in the open no
hardship. Roy, therefore, set himself to a search of the countryside,
hoping somewhere to chance on a trace of the enemy’s camp. In this,
he was unsuccessful. After two days of weary tramping, it occurred
to him that he could serve his purpose equally well by strolling in
pleasant paths with May Thurston at his side.

This improved method was adopted. Roy told the girl nothing as to his
desire of finding Masters, but he told her other things a-plenty; and
the two of them grew daily more content.

It was Margaret West who finally hit on the spring that moved the
wainscoting, for Saxe had let her know the story told by Roy, and she
had amused herself by seeking to master the mystery. Actually, beyond
her satisfaction in having succeeded where the others had failed,
nothing was accomplished, since the vault was empty, and no hint as
to the disposal of the gold could be gleaned from its bareness. Yet,
new knowledge of the secret was soon to come.

Billy Walker’s pride of intellect had been aroused to the utmost by
the difficulty of the task that confronted him. Hour after hour,
day after day, he pored over the manuscript, of which the cryptic
significance ever escaped all efforts of his ingenuity. It seemed to
him that he had, in fact, scrutinized every possible aspect in which
the writing might be viewed, and still the veil lay impenetrable over
the mystery. He would have been in despair, had he been of a humbler
mind, but his intellectual egotism would not suffer him to confess
defeat, even to himself. So, he persisted in the struggle to solve
this baffling problem--did indeed but strive the harder as the days
passed. The others admitted that the difficulties were too great for
their overcoming. Billy replied to their lamentations with braggart
boasting that he would yet conquer. Nevertheless, at the last, he
owed the hint he needed to Saxe.

The four men were lounging on the porch of a morning. The languor of
summer had grown within a few days, and the four were taking their
ease. Billy Walker was crouched in the deeps of a huge chair; David
sprawled on a heap of cushions; Roy stretched lazily in a hammock,
reminiscent of long siestas in the southland. Saxe alone showed any
evidence of alertness. He sat erect at the head of the steps, with
the manuscript of the gold song lying on his knees. Ostensibly, his
attention was fixed on the music. From time to time, he jabbed the
score impatiently with a pencil point. But often, he shot glances
of longing toward the stairway, by which, sooner or later, Margaret
West must descend. Silence had fallen on the group. A sense of
discouragement was in the air. The only sounds were the gossiping of
the English sparrows about the eaves, the faint rustling of leaves
when the breeze stirred them, the distressful grunt that accompanied
any change of position by Billy Walker, the whish of a match as
someone lighted a fresh cigarette.

The real activity was on the part of Billy, whose mind, while his
body lolled, was nimbly busy over the miser’s manuscript, which his
imagination held visible before him. Then, presently, he craved the
stimulus of a sight of the actual. He hoisted his cumbersome bulk
out of the chair, and went stiffly across the veranda to where Saxe
sat with the music. There, he stood for a minute looking down at the
notes. His beetling brows were lowering, a low rumble of displeasure
came from his heavy lips, he thrust a hand vehemently through the
rough shock of hair, his small eyes, with the whites tainted by
jaundice, fairly glared down at the elusive script wherein lay
knowledge of Abernethey’s gold.

Of a sudden, wonder grew on his face. Doubt, fear, hope, joy,
followed. He bent awkwardly, but swiftly, snatched the paper, and
immediately stalked off into the cottage and up the stairs to his
bedroom, without a word of explanation or apology. Saxe shrugged
his shoulders, and smiled whimsically. The others paid no attention
whatsoever.

It was a half-hour later when Billy returned to the porch. His
manner was wholly changed. He was radiant with a supreme triumph of
pride. The others did not look up, as he again seated himself in
the easy chair. But the man was so surcharged with exultation that
his mood sent its challenges vibrant to their souls. Presently, one
turned to stare at him, and then another, and then the third. He
met their gaze with eyes that were aglow, and a smile of delight
bent the coarse lips. He nodded slowly, as in answer to their mute
questioning, and spoke:

“Well, my dilatory friends,” he began genially, “your confidence
in me, which has enabled you to retain your calm while yourselves
accomplishing nothing, was not misplaced. After a considerable period
of unremitting toil over the manuscript left for our guidance by the
ingenious deceased--by the way, Saxe, that song of gold, as you call
it, is perfectly good music, isn’t it?”

The three were gazing on Billy Walker with wide eyes. Their
astonishment was so great that, for the moment, they did not question
the leisurely manner of the sage’s introduction. Instead, Saxe
answered the seemingly irrelevant interrogation obediently.

“It’s perfectly good music--in the sense you mean--yes.”

“Then,” Billy declared, “I take off my hat to the late Mr.
Abernethey. The reason for this burst of enthusiasm on my part lies
in the fact that out of a perfectly good piece of music, he has made,
also, a perfectly good chart--for our guidance to the treasure. As
to the chart, I myself speak as an authority, since I have found
it.” Billy regarded his friends with an expression of intense
self-satisfaction.

Roy was sitting up in the hammock now, with his jaw thrust forward
a little, and his eyes hard in the excitement of the minute. David
was goggling, with his mouth open in amazement over the unexpected
announcement. Saxe betrayed his emotion by the tenseness of his
features, the rigidity of his pose, the sparkle in his keen, gray
eyes.

It was evident that the successful investigator was hugely enjoying
the sensation he had created. He delighted in the importance of
his accomplishment, gloried in the stunning effect of it on his
companions. He smiled broadly, chuckled in a rumbling fashion of his
own, and finally lighted one of his black cigars with irritating
slowness. He rather hoped that someone might exclaim with impatience
against this wanton delay, but none did. They endured the suspense
in apparent calm, moveless, expectant. So at last, Billy deigned to
proceed with the account of his achievement in solving the mystery
contrived by the miser.

“I owe the final suggestion by which I won out to Saxe,” he declared
frankly, with an appreciative nod in his friend’s direction. “He,
however, really deserves no credit, since what he did was merely
by chance, without any intention, and would never have amounted to
anything, if it hadn’t been for the fact that I happened to see what
he had done, and to take advantage of it in an orderly and logical
way. Only, I wish it understood that he served as the unconscious
instrument of destiny in the matter, and as such unconscious
instrument he should be recognized. Probably, I should have arrived
at the fact in time without his aid, but to it I owe success on this
present occasion.”

“What in the world did I do?” Saxe demanded, in amazement.

“I’ll explain in a minute,” Billy replied. “I have in mind first
to exhibit this to you.” He held up a sheet of paper, which he had
drawn from his pocket. It was of about the size of that on which
Abernethey’s composition had been written. It showed two irregular
lines running across it, drawn by pencil. “Glance at this, if you
please,” he directed.

The others did so; but their bewildered expression showed that they
were still unenlightened as to the bearing of the scant diagram on
the revelation concerning the hidden gold. Billy chuckled again in
contemplation of their failure to comprehend. Then, he brought forth
a second sheet, and held it, also, for their inspection. In this
instance, the paper was turned with its greater length horizontal,
and the two lines of the other sheet had been joined, so that the one
irregular tracing extended over the full page.

David slapped his thigh with violence.

“By the Lord Harry, it’s a map!” he cried, in glee. “A regular map,
Billy, my boy!” His eyes bulged forth until they threatened to jump
from their sockets.

Roy’s jaw shot out a bit farther.

“Yes, it’s a map,” he agreed; and his voice was strangely gentle,
as it usually was in his moments of greatest excitement. “It’s a
map. Bully for Billy!” His face lighted with a charming smile, and
his eyes grew soft as he turned them to the rough-hewn face of the
discoverer, who appeared highly gratified.

Saxe took the sheet of paper out of his friend’s hand, and studied
it with eager eyes. For the first time in days, hope leaped in his
breast.

“Yes, it’s a map,” he declared, echoing the others. “But I don’t
understand. Tell us, Billy.”

Billy actually preened himself, in an ungainly manner peculiarly his
own, and assumed a most pedantic air, as he went forward with the
explanation:

“Saxe was sitting here, with his eyes fixed on the old man’s
manuscript, but with his mind elsewhere. I was here in my chair,
with all the power of my brain concentrated on that same manuscript,
trying to get some suggestion for working out the tangle. Was it
merely restlessness under repeated failure, or was it an instinct
that moved me, or just chance? Anyhow, I got up, and crossed over
to Saxe, and stood looking down at the music, although I had every
line of it clear in memory--as clear as the written page itself. But,
this time, in spite of the perfect recollection I had of it, I saw
something new. That’s how the thing started. It was Saxe’s doing.”

“Oh, do get on with the explanation,” Temple urged. “What was it I
did? I haven’t the shadow of an idea.”

“It’s simple enough,” Billy said. “Just absent-mindedly, you sat
there with a pencil in your hand, and made ticks over certain notes.
As I looked down at the sheet, my attention was especially caught by
these, for the excellent reason that they had not been there before.
Without any volition on my part, I stood there considering the pencil
marks. Within a half-minute, the great idea hit me. In the first
rush, I was sure it was the right one; but I wanted to be alone to
work it out. So, I just swooped down on the manuscript, and carried
it off to my room. Now, to present the case in orderly sequence, here
is what we may term Exhibit A.”

Billy took from his pocket a third sheet, which he gave to Saxe. This
proved to be the original manuscript of the music, with the pencil
markings made by Saxe. The heir of Abernethey examined the page
closely, but his expression of bewilderment did not pass. Roy and
David left their places to look over the other’s shoulder. For nearly
a minute, the three held their gaze curiously on the sheet. Then, of
one accord, they looked up, to meet the amused glance of Billy Walker.

“Well?” they demanded, in a single voice.

“You have observed the pencil marks?” came the question; and the
three nodded assent.

This is the manner in which the manuscript had been affected by the
absent-minded action of Saxe:

[Music]

“In pursuance of the idea that had come to me,” Billy continued, “I
next made a tracing. I took a piece of tissue paper, and laid it over
this manuscript. I could then see quite clearly, so that it was easy
to make the outline I wished. I started at the beginning, with the
notes checked by Saxe, from which I had received the hint as to what
to do. I started my pencil at the first top note in the first line
of the composition. Then, I drew the pencil straight to the second
top note, then on to the third, and so forth in order. Thus, I drew
an irregular line with the pencil, from one note to another, using
always the highest notes. In this manner, I drew the line indicated
by the first half of the music, and I liked that so well that I kept
right on, and made the second irregular line, as indicated by the
second half of the music. By the time this was accomplished, I was
sure that I had finally got the right idea, and that our victory
over the old man’s cunning would be won. It was, of course, obvious
that the two irregular lines I had secured should be joined in one.
You have seen the result. Consider Exhibit B.” Billy spread out the
two papers showing the outlines he had drawn, and pointed to that
containing two lines.

It had this appearance.

[Illustration]

Billy completed his account of the matter with no diminution in his
air of elation:

[Illustration]

“Here, then,” he said, waving aloft Exhibit C to emphasize his
meaning, “I present to you the chart which the late Mr. Abernethey
left us as a guide to the spot where the treasure lies secreted.
It is plain enough for even your eyes to read, I fancy. The pencil
outline is to serve us as a map, which we are to follow to the gold.
It represents--roughly, I take it--the sky-line of the country round
about. As I had only just completed the drawing before I came back to
you, I’ve had no time to compare it with the hills hereabouts; but
I’m certain none the less. It’s a matter of inference. There remains
now only the task of finding out what marks the precise point of the
hiding-place on this line. It seems to me that some one of you with
knowledge of music ought to work out that trifling detail. If not, of
course I can do it--in time.”




CHAPTER XVI

THE HOLD


Billy’s vanity was well content with the compliments accorded him
by his friends, who gave the appreciation that was justly his due
for persistent effort when they had wearied. It was David whose
enthusiasm led him to suggest an immediate trip on the lake, to learn
whether or not they could identify the features of the topography
shown by the chart.

The launch, to which they had been reduced by the loss of the
_Scherzo_, had a speed of twelve miles an hour at its best and
under Jake’s guidance it carried them swiftly enough northward to
the broadest part of the lake, whence they might readily study the
shore in all directions. Already, each had familiarized himself
with the chart, so that it was held clearly in a mental picture,
while he looked about over the sweep of sky-line critically, seeking
some resemblance in the rise and fall of mountain and hill and in
the curving of the shore to the irregular tracing made by Billy
from the music. As the boat ran in a wide circle, first one and
then another caught here or there some trick of configuration that
sent him eagerly to compare it with the chart in Billy’s hands.
But, in each instance, the hope was doomed to swift disappointment,
for vital divergence was revealed between the two. There was some
disagreement, too, as to whether or not the map had reference to the
windings of the shore, or to the crests and valleys of the hills and
mountains, as they showed in relief against the sky. Billy Walker
was certain that the chart had been drawn to represent the sky-line,
and Saxe was of the same opinion--chiefly, perhaps, because of the
other’s reasoning in which he had come to have great confidence, if
not absolute reliance. Billy argued that the sky-line would be the
natural guide on which to depend, inasmuch as it was bolder, less
open to doubts. The indication received from this, he pointed out,
could be at once applied to the shore, since the first knowledge
gleaned had declared that the treasure was at the bed of the lake.
Both Roy and David, however, maintained that the chart should be
taken as copying the indentations in a portion of the shore-line.
David offered evidence in support of this contention to the effect
that, whatever the sky-line might show as to itself, there could come
from it no hint as to the distance from the shore at which the gold
was lying. Billy admitted this, and then to his adversary’s chagrin,
exposed the fact that the like difficulty must exist in the event of
the map being of the shore-line itself--which was not to be gainsaid.
It was Saxe, who, at last, made the discovery of importance. He had
been staring fixedly at one point of the horizon for a full minute;
then, he moved over to Billy’s side, where he alternately regarded
the chart and the horizon for a considerable interval.

“Look here, Billy!” he exclaimed, abruptly. “Just take a squint at
Mount Tabor, over there; I learned the name from Jake the other day.”
He pointed to the west, a little to the north of them, where one of
the highest of the peaks of the distant mountains loomed in naked
majesty.

Billy obeyed the request, and readily distinguished the peak to which
Saxe had called his attention.

“Well?” he questioned.

“I want you to notice, too,” Saxe continued, “that the peak is flat
on the top for some distance, and that there’s nothing of much height
to the south.”

Billy nodded in assent.

“All right,” he agreed. “Go on.”

“Now, look farther north, about two miles, or perhaps more. You see
another mountain, which seems to be almost the same height as Mount
Tabor, and is flat on top in the same way?”

There was hardly any delay before Billy answered:

“Yes, I see it. Next?”

“Well, then,” Saxe continued, with animation, “you must bear in mind
the fact that those two peaks are the highest on the whole extent of
the western shore of the lake. It is, I imagine, very likely that
anyone in search for a striking object in the landscape would select
them at the outset as guides, on account of their conspicuousness.
It’s my belief, after looking pretty closely, that Mount Tabor is
shown by the two G’s above the staff in the beginning of the gold
song. Try it running north from Mount Tabor, and compare it with
the chart, and see if you don’t find it brings you all right to the
second high mountain, which is marked by the two G’s of the second
half of the music. And then, keep on, until you come to the mountain
top, much lower, but also hog-backed, which seems to me to be
indicated by the final C’s of the score.”

Billy needed no urging. Before his friend had ceased speaking, he
had brought his whole mind to bear in considering the similarities
to which Saxe called his attention. For five minutes, he examined
first the undulant horizon line and then the chart, which he held
out-spread before him. He and Saxe were in the stern seats, while Roy
and David had places forward, discussing the shore-line, and giving
no heed to what was going on behind them. Suddenly, the voice of
Billy Walker boomed forth in its fullness:

“By Croesus, Saxe, you’ve got it! You’ve pinned the map to the
mountains! Bravo, my son!”

At the outburst, Roy and David faced about, startled. They saw the
unwieldy bulk of Billy swaying with the motion he had imparted to
the launch by leaping to his feet. He was a figure of joy, with his
little eyes glowing, his bare head a tangle of wind-tossed hair, his
harsh features softened by radiance. Even Jake had turned in his seat
at the wheel, and was rigidly expectant.

“Praise be!” Billy ejaculated, as he waved the chart high in a
gesture of triumph. “One of you, at last, has come to my help. Saxe
has run the chart to earth--literally.”

At that, there was a lively display of interest. Jake stopped the
engine, and left the launch to drift lazily, while he joined the
others for a study of the map in connection with the horizon line
discovered by Saxe. Roy and David were inclined to be somewhat
skeptical at the outset, but they were presently convinced, as they
perceived the exactness of the correspondence between mountains and
chart. There was jubilation on the part of all.

Jake introduced a topic that was lying in the mind of each.

“But I don’t understand yet jest where ’bouts that-thar money of Mr.
Abernethey’s might be,” he remarked. “What about it?”

“Our esteemed friend has touched on the very _crux_ of the matter,”
Billy declared, with a noisy sigh. “We have now attained to all
the knowledge that we require for our purposes--with a single small
exception--we don’t know where the gold is. Nevertheless, the chart
will tell us. It’s there--somewhere--Saxe has done nobly in coming
to my assistance. It seems to me that, now, it’s the turn of either
Roy or Dave.” Billy laughed, and then assumed an expression of
elephantine demureness. “Roy is something of an expert in occult
things,” he suggested, with his eyes twinkling. “It might be a good
idea for him to try his powers on this. The divining rod, in the
hands of the gifted, will locate precious metals, as well as water,
under the surface of the earth. Doubtless, it will do as much for
gold under water. It is probable that Jake can inform us as to where
witch-hazel is to be found in the woods. With a twig of that for
wand--I believe it is the accepted wood--let Roy go wandering over
the lake in the launch; let him hold the divining-rod in his hand
until it shall dip toward the water. Let a buoy be floated there to
mark the spot, and there will we dredge, and there will we bring up
the old man’s treasure.”

Roy sniffed, while Saxe and David smiled over Billy’s bombast. But
Jake took the suggestion seriously, and nodded his approval.

“Allus hearn it would find gold and silver,” he said, “but I hain’t
never seen it done. It’s fine for water, though, and that I know,
havin’ seen it work many a time. It bent, and they dug, and the water
come, and that’s all they was to it.”

Two hours after he had retired that night, Billy Walker was rudely
awakened out of a sound sleep. In a dream, which had been of a
curious, but most agreeable heaven, where he was dining on dishes
that were puzzles, each one to be solved before it could be eaten, he
was instantaneously transported to a vile groggery of the water-front
in a seaport town, where a horde of rapscallions pounced on him with
intent to shanghai. He awoke to behold in the moonlight Saxe, who
sat on the edge of the bed, jolting him violently to and fro. When
his brain was sufficiently clear, he demanded the meaning of this
outrage. The first words from his friend were consolation enough.

“Billy, I’ve found the place!”

There was no need for apology, since the disturber of his slumbers
had brought to Billy Walker the news he most desired. Instantly, he
was questioning.

“Quick! Tell me! How’d you find it! Where is it?”

Saxe laughed happily.

“I must give you one final lesson in music, to enable you to
understand. It’s so simple! I can’t guess why I didn’t get it in a
second.”

“The most obvious thing is often the most obscure,” came the oracular
paradox.

“A hold in music,” Saxe explained, “is a mark which shows that a
certain note is to be sounded for a time longer than is demanded by
its value otherwise.”

“Well?” There was excitement in the harsh whisper.

“Wait until I’ve lighted the lamp,” Saxe said. In a moment it was
done. “Now, take another glance at the gold song itself--not the
chart.” He pulled the sheet from a pocket of the dressing-gown that
he wore over his pajamas, and held it up before Billy’s face for
inspection.

[Music]

“That shaded half-circle,” Saxe went on, “with a period in the
concavity, over the second measure of the second half of the gold
song, is a hold--a hold--a hold, Billy! Don’t you understand? Isn’t
it plain? That marks the spot where the gold is--I know it does.
That’s the place where we pause, where we hang on!”

“Of course!” Billy Walker’s voice had a tone of complete
satisfaction. “You’ve done splendidly, Saxe. With much training,
I believe I might be able to make something out of your intellect.
The chart will show just what part of the shore is indicated by this
hold. The gold will be at that point--probably, close to the bank,
but certainly under the water, for the first lesson read, ‘The Bed of
the Lake.’ We shall find it without Roy’s divining-rod, after all.”




CHAPTER XVII

MASTERS AGAIN


In the hour preceding dawn, Roy gave over his fight against an
unaccustomed nervousness that had kept him awake, rose, took a
sponge bath, shaved, and dressed himself for the day. He stole from
the room, and quietly let himself out of the house, in confident
expectation that the outdoors charm of dawn would soothe the unrest
of his spirit. A slight noise arrested his attention as he went
toward the north end of the cottage. He was wearing tennis shoes,
of which the rubber soles made no sound on the ground, and he went
forward with caution, his curiosity aroused, for he was certain that
he caught a sibilant whisper. Already, there was a rosy grayness
stealing on the air, so that he could see, though dimly. As he came
to the corner of the house, he halted, and peered covertly forward.
He could distinguish a shadow that moved a little. As his eyes
grew accustomed to the twilight, he made out that there were two
forms there, one much the larger. Again, his ears detected a faint
whispering, too indistinct to be understood. Then, one softly spoken
phrase came clearly:

“Come away--they’ll hear us.” It was the voice of the engineer.

Roy’s muscles tensed for the leap forward. But he remembered the fact
that as yet there was nothing in the way of direct evidence against
Masters. He and his friends believed in the man’s guilt, but there
was no proof. Now something might be said that would serve to convict
the engineer of his crimes. Roy determined to listen, to learn what
he might. The two who had met thus mysteriously moved toward the
north-east, going swiftly toward the shore of the lake. At a safe
distance behind them, Roy followed.

The couple halted in an open place on the lake shore, where a cliff
dropped sheer to the water some thirty feet, as much more to the
bottom of the lake. Roy contrived to make a slow progress to a point
in the undergrowth above them, hardly a rod away, and here he was
able to understand every word spoken between them. And now, fire of
wrath, kindled by jealousy, burned fiercely in Roy’s bosom, for
there came to him the voice of the smaller of the two persons, and it
was the voice of a girl--the voice of May Thurston. Strangely, the
idea that she could be the one thus to meet the engineer by stealth
had not occurred to him hitherto, and the shock of the discovery came
near to robbing him of his self-control. Indeed he made a movement
to dart forth, but again his action was checked by the command of
reason, though through evil seconds he fought against obedience.
Then abruptly, his mood changed as he caught the significance of the
dialogue between the speakers:

“I knew it was you,” May was saying, in a voice vibrant with horror,
which she strove to repress. “I knew it was you that first time,
for I went up there, and found the rifle in the tree where you had
been when I met you in the morning. I supposed, of course, that you
understood how I knew, and so you wouldn’t dare to try again. And I
thought you had gone. Thank God, I couldn’t sleep tonight, and came
out in time to see you light that fuse--in time to put it out before
you could stop me. I shall tell them everything in the morning, the
first thing.”

There was a note of finality in her voice. It was evident that
whatever tenderness she had felt for this man had been overwhelmed
beneath the flood of her loathing for his crimes. Masters must have
understood perfectly the uselessness of all effort to persuade her
from her purpose, for he wasted not an instant in argument; instead,
he acted.

Before Roy could make a movement to interfere, the engineer had
leaped forward. His long, powerful fingers closed in a strangling
grasp on the soft, white throat of the girl, sank viciously into the
tender flesh. May’s eyes protruded, her arms straightened out in a
spasm of physical anguish, but no sound issued from the parted lips.
Almost in the same second, Masters shifted his grip with lightning
speed to her waist, lifted her easily, and swung her from the cliff
out into space. Then, he went crashing off into the wood, running
blindly, ere yet came the splash made by the girl’s falling body as
it entered the water.

Perhaps Masters did not hear the second splash, which followed after
the briefest interval. If he heard, and thought of it at all, he
probably deemed it caused by some rock his movement had set rolling
over the cliff. Assuredly, he never dreamed that there had been at
hand a man to plunge after his victim, to save her from the death to
which he had assigned her. In his intimacy with May, he had learned
that she could not swim. In that deep water, where the naked cliff
rising vertically offered no hand-hold, she, in her dazed condition,
could have no chance to escape alive out of the peril into which his
cruelty had cast her. Such was the engineer’s belief, and his feeling
was merely of satisfaction in thus having rid himself of the witness
who knew his blood-guiltiness.

Even as his body clove the air in the long dive to the water, Roy
was conscious of a pang of regret that he must suffer the enemy to
escape. Then, he was beneath the surface, groping vainly. As his head
shot clear again, his eyes glimpsed May’s head just disappearing near
at hand. In a moment, he had reached her, was in time to seize her
before she sank again. He was at home in the element, and, as the
girl was unconscious, and so offered no resistance by a struggle, his
task was all the easier. He quickly brought her to the shore, at a
point where there was a break in the cliff, and the ground sloped
sharply to the level above. He did not pause until he had carried her
in his arms to the top of the bank. There, he laid her face downward
on the ground, then lifted her by the waist, so that the lungs
might empty themselves of water. Afterward, he chafed her face and
hands, and soon, to his great relief, she showed signs of returning
consciousness. As she had been immersed for so brief a time, she
speedily made a complete recovery, save for the weakness consequent
to the shock of the whole experience. Indeed, her wretchedness was
rather from the violence of the engineer’s attack than from the
little water she had swallowed before her rescue by Roy.

It was after the first confused questioning on her part, and Roy’s
account of his presence on the scene, that she gave an explanation of
the events that had led to the attempt against her life. She, too,
had sought relief from wearisome wakefulness by wandering abroad in
the night. While she was close to the cottage, yet in the shadows
of the wood, she had heard a sound that attracted her attention,
and had watched carefully. There was a long silence before her
interest was rewarded, but at last, she made out a movement on the
north wall of the cottage itself, which was only a little way from
her. Observing closely, she perceived that the object was a man,
who was descending a ladder. It needed no more to fill her with
alarm, and with fear came suspicion, which was almost certainty,
as to the identity of the prowler. At first, however, she remained
quiescent, doubtful as to her right course of conduct, anxious,
if it were in any wise possible, to avoid alarming the household.
During her period of delay, the man disappeared with the ladder, but
he returned immediately, and forthwith she saw a match struck. It
was extinguished at once, but, as the flame died out, she beheld a
glowing spark, which remained against the wall. Even as she stared,
it seemed to mount upward very slowly. She believed, then, that the
desperate man had determined to set the cottage on fire, and a new
horror gripped her, so that the scream she attempted did not pass
her lips. In an instant, she had reached the cottage--she caught
the spark between her palms, and smothered the fire. Before she
had time to understand the situation, she was hurled backward, and
found herself in the arms of Masters, who was whispering fiercely
in her ear to be silent. Without giving him any heed at first, she
mechanically examined her smudged hands, and found that she held in
them the charred end of a cord. As she drew the length of this to
her, it came readily, and she was aware that it had broken from its
fastening under the impact of the man’s leap on her. She knew, also,
that this thing she was holding was a fuse. Her quick intelligence
grasped the truth that the treacherous engineer, who now embraced
her so roughly, had again sought to destroy his enemies. She was so
agitated by the realization, so distraught by the thought that she
was lying helpless within the criminal’s arms, while he held a hand
over her mouth to silence her shrieks, that she even welcomed the
suggestion overheard by Roy as to their moving to a greater distance
from the cottage. The remainder of the incident was already known to
her savior.

As she ended her story, May, overwrought, began crying softly. There
are times when the simplicity of direct physical contact avails
more than any magic of words to tell sympathy and love. It was so in
this instance. Wet and bedraggled as he was from his descent into
the lake, Roy drew into his arms the crouched form of the girl, and
held her closely, while from them the rivulets slid silently away
downward, to seek again the lake from which they had been ravished.
The girl was first startled, then soothed, then wondrously content.
The dawn came, stealing softly, and the light fell on them as a
blessing.




CHAPTER XVIII

DUX FACTI FEMINA


Roy was aroused to sudden consternation, when a lull in his ecstatic
emotion let him once again think of mundane things, for it flashed
on him that the explosive to which the fuse had been attached still
remained in Saxe’s chamber. In a word he explained the matter, and
the two hastened to the cottage, where after a quick embrace they
separated, May going to her room, to change into dry clothing, and
Roy running to his friend. He entered Saxe’s chamber cautiously, yet
moving rapidly, lighted the lamp, and looked about him. At once, his
eyes fell on the bomb, which rested on a bureau, near the head of
the bed. From it extended the remnant of fuse, which ran out through
the open window. Roy drew this in, took up the bomb carefully, for
he was not sure how sensitive it might be, and made his way out
of the room, without awakening the sleeper. Within a minute, the
instrument of crime was reposing innocuously on the bed of the
lake, whither Roy had tossed it from the cliff. On his return to
the house, he aroused his friend, and told of the latest attempt
on the part of the engineer. Saxe was profoundly impressed by the
narrowness of his escape from death, or mutilation. Nevertheless, his
feeling was less by far than it must have been, but for his midnight
discovery concerning the miser’s cipher. Without pausing to dress,
he hurriedly related the fact to Roy, who was equally impressed. To
make the matter wholly clear, Saxe would have exhibited the music to
Roy, showing the place occupied by the hold, but the manuscript had
mysteriously disappeared. The two hunted through the room thoroughly,
although Saxe was sure that the sheet had been left on the bureau
when he returned from Billy Walker’s room. There was no trace of it
anywhere, and presently they abandoned the search, to stare at each
other in bewilderment. It was Roy who first reached a solution of the
puzzle:

“It was Masters took it--of course!” he declared, savagely. “He’s
been snooping around, heard us talk of it probably, and, when he got
here tonight, he simply swiped it.”

“But it’ll do him no good.” Saxe protested.

“But he thinks it will,” Roy retorted. “Anyhow, he’s made off with
it. Perhaps he thought it would tie us up--and so it will. We must
have it back.” His jaw shot forward, and his eyes grew hard.

Saxe, however, smiled, and shook his head in denial.

“Not a bit of it,” he asserted. “I can reproduce that music in ten
minutes, every mark on it. I know where the hold was, exactly. For
that matter, I don’t need the music. The chart will do just as well,
for I know the place on it, too. But I’ll do the music over for Bill
and the rest of you. I’ll do it as soon as I’m dressed, before I come
down to breakfast.” And as he said, so was it. When he appeared at
the breakfast-table, he carried with him an exact duplicate of the
old miser’s manuscript.

There was much lively interest on the part of all, when the adventure
of the night was made known, and May on her appearance was hailed as
a heroine of melodrama. To the astonishment of all save Roy perhaps,
the girl was more radiant than they had ever seen her hitherto, and
the color in her cheeks and the brilliance of her charming eyes, now
undisfigured by the businesslike lenses of the secretary, rendered
her beauty so striking that the men regarded her with new admiration,
while Margaret West, from the instinct of a woman whose own heart is
full of tenderness, regarded her friend with a gentle suspicion that
there remained something of the adventure yet untold.

Roy was eager to devote the day to a search for the capture of
Masters, but the others were opposed to this. It was finally decided
that the quest for the hiding-place of the treasure must be carried
on without a moment of delay, since the matter of the short time now
remaining, only a week, could not be ignored. As to the evil devices
of the engineer, it would be sufficient to take precautions against
them by keeping watch through the coming night and afterward until
the end of the hunt for the gold. So, as soon as breakfast was done,
the four friends set out in the launch with Jake for a survey of the
territory indicated by the hold.

This, as was clearly apparent from examination of the manuscript, was
on the lake shore at a point opposite one of the low peaks. It was
easily distinguished by its nearness to the second of the highest
summits, as it was at the first point of rise after a long descent.
The course brought them again to the north end of the lake, to a
place close to the extreme end. There was a cove here, which ran
inland for a half-mile. Within the curve of the shore, a few small
islands were scattered, and outside the miniature bay a larger island
stretched, one of the chief on the lake.

It was Roy who now assumed charge of the expedition, by right of his
varied experience in wild places, which had included the tracking of
cattle-rustlers and outlaws. He directed that first a landing should
be made, and the shore at the point indicated gone over carefully for
any slightest trace of footsteps, or other marks, which might show
operations in connection with the removal of the treasure. If found,
such a trail would doubtless guide them in their further quest of the
gold at the bottom of the lake. They spent three hours at the work,
and finally abandoned it in despair, for their investigation had been
exhaustive, without revealing aught.

Billy Walker delivered himself forcibly, when at last a council
was called. Since he had toiled steadfastly with the others,
notwithstanding his distaste for physical exertion, there could be
no question as to his sincerity when he argued against any further
effort in this direction.

“I’ve learned from Jake,” he explained, “that the late Mr.
Abernethey understood the management of his boats perfectly, and on
occasion used them without taking any one along to help him. It is,
therefore, reasonable to suppose that he would have transported the
money to its hiding-place in one of the power-boats. He had no horse,
and his feebleness was such that he could not have lugged all that
weight of gold, even if he divided it into small amounts, for this
place is four miles from the cottage--almost as far as we walked the
other day. Now, we know that the treasure is at the bottom of the
lake. That was the first thing the manuscript taught us. I’m sure he
brought it here in the boat. There is no reason why there should be
any mark on the shore. I say this: We’ll go back, and have luncheon.
Then, we’ll return here, and institute an orderly, exhaustive search
of the lake bottom. We must rig up some sort of grappling irons, and
anyone so wishing can become a diver, and search the bottom that way.
Anyhow, we know the gold is down there. It’s up to us to find it. I
will say, I think the old man has done his part.”

This plan was duly carried out. As soon as the young men had left the
luncheon-table, they scattered to gather the necessary materials for
their equipment in the next stage of the undertaking, following the
suggestions of Billy Walker.

Saxe had just descended the steps of the porch when he heard his
name called. He turned, and saw Margaret West, standing half-way
between him and the shore, a little to the south from the cottage.
At the moment, there was no one else visible. Saxe hurried toward
her, his face flushed with pleasure at the summons. Recently, she had
seemed a bit more distant in her attitude toward him, and he had been
tortured by those alarms that are the heritage of all lovers. At this
moment, however, her face was radiant, and her limpid blue eyes were
sparkling with eagerness. As he came near, she spoke, and there was a
thrill of delight in her voice, which set his heart bounding.

“Oh,” she said, clasping her hands on her breast in a quaint gesture
of emotion, “I hope, I really believe that I may be able to help you.”

“You!” Saxe exclaimed, in manifest surprise. “Why, what do you mean?
Help me--how?”

“It’s about the gold,” Margaret answered. There was timidity in her
tones now, as if his evidence of astonishment had distressed her. “I
think, I’m almost sure, that I know something you ought to know.”

Saxe’s amazement increased. Somehow, at the back of his mind, there
had always lingered the abominable statement made by Roy as to this
girl, that she was his natural enemy, that she must be such by the
circumstances of the case, since his success would be her direct
loss of a large sum of money. He had scorned the idea when it was
presented to him; he had never for a moment allowed it entertainment;
his love for the girl was sufficient to deny the possibility of
her being in any way influenced by sordid things. Yet, always, the
thought had lurked in the background for the reason that it had
once been voiced by his friend. Now, at her display of interest
in his behalf, his first emotion was wholly of surprise from the
unexpectedness of the event, and this was followed swiftly by joy
that thus she should have proved Roy’s saying false. The new feeling
was undoubtedly shown in his face, for, as she regarded him intently,
Margaret’s expression grew lighter again. She went on speaking with
new animation:

“You know, I was here once before, when I was a little girl, visiting
my cousin. He was different then--not lively, or gay, or anything
like that, but I don’t think that the miserliness had got such a hold
on him. Anyhow, he went about with me a great deal, and we really
had ever so good times together. He often took me out in the launch.
One time in particular is the thing I must speak to you about, for
he took me up in the neighborhood where you were today. I’m sure of
that, for I know just where you went from what you said at luncheon.
Do you wish me to go on?”

“Do I wish you to?” Saxe cried. “We need all the help we can get.
Of course I wish you to. The only thing is that I wonder you’re
willing. It doesn’t seem right that you should rob yourself by giving
assistance to your natural enemies.” He smiled whimsically, as he
thus paraphrased Roy’s accusation against the girl.

“Nonsense!” was her energetic retort. “I’m not quite so poor as to
worry over the money part of it. It seems to me that you ought to
win--I think my cousin meant you to. Besides, I’d like to see you do
it, just to disappoint Mr. Masters. But let me tell you, I’m still
afraid of him. He’s a desperate man, who’ll stop at nothing, even
murder, as you know. And he’s mad to get that money. So, I want to
help you, and to beat him. But, of course, my idea may amount to
nothing, really--after all.”

“Tell me,” Saxe said, simply. He was beamingly happy, and the fact
showed plainly enough in his eyes and smile. The girl flushed a
little under his glance.

“There’s an island up there,” she said presently; and her voice was
strangely soft for a statement so prosaic. “It lies in the entrance
to the cove, before you come to the other islands. They are smaller,
too. You noticed it, perhaps?” She glanced up at Saxe inquiringly,
then her eyes drooped again, as he nodded assent.

“That,” she continued briskly, “was one of the places to which my
cousin took me. What I learned that day may be just the thing you
need to know now: There’s a cave on that island.”

Saxe regarded the girl in dismay. This information was not what he
had anticipated. He did not know just what he had expected, but
certainly it had been nothing like this.

“A cave!” he exclaimed, weakly. “But the gold’s at the bottom of the
lake, you know.”

Margaret moved her head in assent.

“Yes, I know,” she agreed. She was not in the least disconcerted
by the obvious disappointment on the part of her listener. On the
contrary, a mischievous dimple pitted the rose of her cheek. “Just
the same, the cave might have something to do with your affair.”

“I don’t understand,” Saxe objected.

“The cave runs downward,” she said; and she waited for the meaning of
her words to penetrate his consciousness. They did so, presently.

“Oh, the cave runs downward,” he repeated, thoughtfully. “I begin to
understand.”

Margaret met his gaze frankly, and nodded assent to the idea that
had arisen in his mind.

“Yes,” she went on, “the cave is really larger than you might fancy
from the size of the island, and the passage slopes downward, though
not very steeply. We didn’t go far. I don’t know the length of it.
Cousin Horace didn’t know--then. In the cave, there are plenty of
places where the gold could have been hidden. So, I thought I’d tell
you.”

“Bless your dear heart!” Saxe cried. “I believe you’ve saved the day
for us. The chances are, we’d never have got to searching the island
even, without your help.”

“You might have missed the cave, if you had gone over the island,”
Margaret said. “It isn’t at all easy to find, I can tell you. I don’t
know how my cousin happened on it. He told me that, as far as he
knew, there was no one else aware of its existence.”

A great volume of sound shattered the air. The two turned toward the
boat-house, and saw Billy Walker, who made an imperative gesture, and
shouted again:

“All ready! Hurry along!”

But, as Saxe turned to the girl, to say good-bye, she stayed him.

“Wait!” she commanded. “I don’t wish the others to know--yet. You
see, it might come to nothing, after all. How would it do, if I were
to go with you in the canoe? Then we could land on the island, and
investigate, and afterward, if you found things promising, you could
tell the others. What do you think?”

Saxe was in a whirl of delight. Thus far, he had never enjoyed the
like opportunity to be with the girl whom he loved. His heart leaped
at the thought of it, and his eyes were tender and happy as they met
hers.

“What do I think of it?” he repeated. His voice was so charged with
adoration that the rich color flooded Margaret’s cheeks. “Why, I
think it will be splendid! Shall we start right away?”

The girl laughed, in some confusion, and her glance wandered from him.

“Not this very second,” she protested, “for I must change into
something different for paddling. Go down and send the others along,
and I’ll be with you in ten minutes--no, fifteen.”

Saxe, waiting on the dock with the canoe already launched, smiled a
trifle grimly, and admitted that the dearest woman in the world was
essentially feminine, for his watch indicated the half-hour since
their parting. It was just as he slipped the timepiece back into his
pocket that he heard the laughing voice behind him:

“I’m just on time to the second, am I not?”

Saxe turned, to see Margaret, in workman-like gray sweater and short
skirt. His gaze, though fond, was mildly reproachful.

“It’s been just half an hour,” he declared.

“Then, I’m on time, to the second as I said.” The girl beamed on him,
quite unabashed.

At this astonishing statement, Saxe opened his eyes in wonder.

“But you said--” he began.

“I said fifteen minutes,” Margaret interrupted. “Of course, you know
that you must always double a woman’s time.”

“I didn’t know,” the young man confessed, smiling.

“Yes,” Margaret continued, as she knelt in the bow of the canoe.
“The time estimated must always be doubled. The trouble is that some
women make the time triple, or worse, with no certainty about it.
They bring the sex into disrepute, and we others, who are exact, get
included in the general condemnation.”

Saxe, in the stern, watched the graceful swing of the girl’s arms as
they plied the paddle, the litheness of the slender body as it swayed
slightly to and fro, watched the sheen of the sunlight that touched
to new glories the gold of her hair, watched the wonderful curve of
white, softly radiant from the pulsing blood beneath, which ran from
the low neck of the sweater to lose itself within the wind-tendriled,
shimmering splendor of her locks. And she, this girl so magically
beautiful, so wholesomely sweet, so divinely complex, so heavenly
simple, this adorable creature had come to aid him at her own
loss--she, his natural enemy!

They came at last to the island, where the canoe was beached on
a sandy slope. The launch was out of sight, somewhere beyond the
islands, within the cove. Margaret led the way without hesitation up
the steep ascent that lined the shore, and then over a boulder-strewn
level toward the center of the island. Presently, the ground became
uneven, with sharp rises, and gullies running between these. Within
the ravines, there were small cliffs, rugged, disposed topsy-turvily.
Saxe began to see the possibility of caverns within the confusion of
stone.

Finally, the girl halted, and looked about her dubiously.

“I’m not quite sure,” she confessed. “There have been landmarks all
the way, until just here. But I think this is the ravine--if not,
it’s close by.”

She went on slowly, with roving eyes. Then, of a sudden, her
expression lightened.

“Ah, I know now,” she exclaimed joyously. “Yes, it’s here--see!”
While speaking, she had hastened forward, and now, as she finished,
she pointed to where a clump of bushes grew against the north cliff
of the ravine. Above the tops of the branches showed a rift in the
stone. It was less than a foot in width, a splotch of blackness
hardly more noticeable than a deeper shadow. Saxe, beholding, was
filled with gratitude to his guide.

“We’d never have found it in a thousand years,” he declared.
“Besides, why should we ever hunt for the bed of a lake on the top of
an island?”

“Mr. Walker would have evolved a reason for it in the course of
time,” Margaret said, in a voice charged with profound respect for
the sage.

“Yes, I believe Billy would have worked it out--in time,”
Saxe agreed. “But,” he added, with a smile, “perhaps not in
time--according to the terms of the will.”

“There’s another entrance, on one of the ridges near the shore,”
Margaret explained. “Cousin Horace stumbled on that first. He showed
it to me. But he found this way out, and it is better. He said the
other was very hard climbing.”

The two had gone forward, and now they were close to the cliff,
beside the bushes. Here, Margaret thrust aside the branches, and,
advancing a step behind them, showed the entrance to the cave, which
was a slit less than a yard in width at the base, narrowing to the
apex a rod above. It yawned blackly. Saxe was reminded that he had
taken no thought as to the need of candles or lantern. He began the
confession of his carelessness, but the girl stopped him.

“I brought a pocket-torch,” she said. “See!” As she spoke, she drew
the tube from a pocket of her sweater, pressed the spring, and
lighted up the entrance to the cave.

“What a girl you are!” Saxe cried. There was that in his voice which
set Margaret a-tremble.

“Come!” she commanded hastily. With the word, she walked forward
into the cavern. Behind her in the narrow passage, Saxe followed
obediently.




CHAPTER XIX

IN THE CAVERN


The passage continued of limited width for a number of rods. The
floor lay almost level, smooth enough to make going easy. The light
from the torch showed only walls of bare rock on either side, and
once, when Margaret turned the rays upward, the narrowing slant to
an apex far above their heads. The two explorers went in silence.
Saxe thought the footing safe enough so that he could content himself
with watching the girl, whose every motion was a delight to him, seen
dimly in the glow that penetrated from without. He was not minded to
waste many glances on barren cliffs, while so much of living beauty
went in buoyant grace there before him. Margaret, however, gave
no apparent attention to aught save the immediate business of the
moment, which was holding her gaze to the path lighted by the torch.
And so they came presently into a spacious chamber within the earth.

As the two entered here, Margaret halted, and Saxe eagerly stepped
to her side. The girl flashed the torch here and there, to reveal the
nature of the place. Saxe guessed that the room had a diameter of
about fifty feet. The walls of ragged rock formed an uneven circle.
They bent inward in the ascent, with a dome-like effect, to a height
of hardly two score feet.

Margaret wasted no time. After one examination of the walls by the
torch, she fixed the light on a portion of the side opposite them, a
little to the left. Saxe, peering intently in this direction, thought
that he detected two patches of shadow, a little denser than the
surrounding dark, which might be the openings into other tunnels. The
girl’s words proved his surmise right.

“There are two passages over there, close together,” she announced.
“As I remember, the one we followed was that on the right. Of course,
the money might be hidden anywhere. But we might go a little way in
that passage first, so that you’ll understand how it runs downward.”

“Yes,” Saxe agreed. “The place in which to search is narrowed by the
statement in the cipher about the bottom of the lake. Does the other
passage, too, run downward?”

The girl shook her head instinctively, although the action was not
visible, since the outdoor light did not penetrate thus far, and the
beam cast by the torch was directed from her.

“I know nothing of the second passage,” she explained. “We didn’t
enter it. Come.”

They set out across the chamber, walking side by side, and so came
to the passage-way of which Margaret had had experience. This proved
to be somewhat broader than that through which they had come. They
had advanced but a very short way, when the floor began to slope
sharply downward. Saxe realized that this rate of descent need not be
continued long to bring them to the level of the lake’s bottom. He
knew that the highest point of the island could have hardly more than
a hundred feet of elevation above the surface of the lake. Indeed, he
was sure that the entrance to the cavern was only a little distance
above the level of the water. They had climbed the bluff that lined
the shore, and had afterward ascended a few slight rises, but the
total vertical height could not have been more than fifty feet.
The inclination of the passage downward was enough to overcome this
speedily, if it should continue. And it did continue, for such a long
way that at last Saxe was sure the waters of the lake lay above them.

The two wayfarers within this secret place of the earth spoke little,
and that for the most part of the things immediately about them. The
floor of this passage-way here was not free from rubble, as the other
had been. It was littered everywhere with fallen fragments, so that
there was need to watch each step with care. Saxe experienced a new
happiness when the difficulties of the path became so serious as to
justify him in taking the hand of Margaret to help her in surmounting
a fallen boulder. As the pulse of her blood touched his, it throbbed
a rapture in his heart. In this dark vault of the earth, he forgot
the first object of the subterranean wandering--forgot in worship of
the woman at his side; Margaret herself sharply recalled him to the
prosaic.

“Do you notice the difference in the light?” she asked. “I’m sure
it’s dying out. It must need recharging. We must hurry back.”

A note of apprehension in the speaker’s voice aroused Saxe to
instant concern. He gave a quick glance toward the circle of light
cast by the torch, and perceived that its radiance had in fact grown
less.

“Yes,” he answered, “it’s failing. We must turn. Anyhow, I’ve seen
enough to understand that this is the likeliest place in which to
hunt for the gold.”

As he spoke, they turned about together, and began the ascent with
hastening steps, for the thought that the torch might die out while
they were still within the cavern was far from pleasant to either of
them. The girl’s anxiety was revealed in the next question:

“Have you matches?”

With a start of dismay, Saxe recalled that he had left his match-safe
in the pocket of his coat, which remained in the canoe. Nevertheless,
he made a perfunctory search.

“No,” he admitted reluctantly; “I left them in the canoe.” He heard
the girl sigh; but she said nothing more, only hastened her steps.
The dimming of the torch was very apparent now.

The two scrambled over the unevennesses of the passage with what
haste they might. Saxe congratulated himself on the fact that there
had been no other passages branching from that in which they had made
the descent, for the turns, while never sharp, had been frequent
enough to breed perilous confusion were there need of choice. In
the next instant, however, he remembered the abstraction of his
thoughts during the traversing of the route, and he was filled with
self-reproach at the realization that, after all, there might have
been such branches. And, just then, the two halted abruptly, arrested
by a sudden consciousness of the truth. They were descending!

For a moment, neither spoke. In that little interval, the feeble glow
of the torch died out altogether.

There came a gasp of dismay from Margaret. Saxe’s clasp on her hand
tightened in the instinct of protection. Then he essayed a cheerful
laugh, albeit there was small merriment in it.

“Now,” he declared briskly, “we must stop right where we are until
we’ve planned a campaign. This is a real adventure.” Even as he
spoke, miserably aware of the serious predicament into which the
going out of the torch had plunged them, he was conscious of the
delicate fragrance of her hair, so near his lips, and the vague, yet
penetrant, perfume that exhaled from her to the ravishing of his
senses. He fought manfully against the temptation to draw her to his
breast, as every fibre of him besought. Under the stress of desire
denied, his voice came with a ring of imperiousness. “I had a lot of
experiences in caves, when I was a boy. This thing will be easy.”

“But we’re going downward,” Margaret faltered. The mystery of the
event had sapped courage.

“Exactly!” Saxe conceded. “Somewhere, we turned off into a branch
passage. Did you know of any branch?”

“No,” came the answer. The inflection of distress gave new strength
to the temptation that beset him.

“I should have noticed it on the way down,” Saxe confessed, in great
bitterness of spirit; “but my mind was wool-gathering.”

The girl ventured no question. Perhaps she guessed the nature of that
distraction.

“Anyhow, we’ve managed to leave the passage in which we came down.
We couldn’t have turned around in it, without knowing the fact. It
seems to me that we’ve only to face about, and make our way upward
again--merely watching out that we don’t get switched off another
time. The ascent will surely take us back by one or the other of the
two corridors into the big room above.”

“But--if it should not!” Margaret stammered. The woe in her voice was
pitiful. “Why, we might--here in the dark--no light--no food--oh!”

Saxe spoke with a manner of authority:

“Stop! Don’t imagine things. Worry wastes strength. Save yours for
this exciting climb through the dark. There’s no danger--that I
know.” The calm confidence with which he contrived to charge his
voice soothed the girl, and restored to her some measure of courage.
From his position on the left side of her, he put out his free hand,
and touched the wall. “Put out your right hand,” he bade her, “until
it reaches the wall. Now, we’ll turn round, and begin the journey
in the right direction. Keep in touch with the wall, please. Move
slowly, using your feet in place of eyes, to avoid stumbling.”

In this fashion, they set forth through the blackness of the cavern.
It was slow and tedious going. It had been tiresome enough when
the torch made plain the obstacles strewn over the floor. Now, the
difficulties were multiplied an hundredfold by the absence of light.
They could only shuffle a foot about cautiously until it secured a
firm place, then by like clumsy feeling choose the next step. Often,
one or the other stumbled, was near to falling, but, since these
mishaps occurred rarely at the same instant, the one still in balance
gave sufficient support. Yet, slow as was their progress, Saxe found
heart to be content with it. Always it was upward, until he dared
believe that they were actually in either the passage by which they
had descended, or in that which opened near it in the big room. He
told his faith to Margaret, and she strove her best to throw off the
gloom bred of this hateful environment, but could not; nevertheless,
despite her fears, they won through at last to the great chamber.

“Hurrah!” cried Saxe. His guiding left hand swept suddenly into
emptiness--another step, and still there had been no contact to
his roving fingers. It was then that he halted, and gave a shout of
triumph. “There’s no wall on your side?” he demanded.

The girl put out her hand, but there was nothing within reach. With
a pang of compunction, she realized that she had been remiss in the
duty appointed her, for she had not felt the wall even once in a long
while. She made admission of her guilt, with charming contrition.

“It’s no matter,” Saxe declared. Profound relief sounded in his
words. “We’ve come safe to the big room, and nothing else counts.” In
sheer exuberance over their escape, he pressed the fingers that lay
so lightly within his.

The girl thrilled in answer to the clasp. The announcement of their
return to the chamber came to her overwrought mind as a reprieve from
fearful doom. With the joy now possessing her, there came relaxation
of the tension that had sustained her. In the warm pressure of his
hand over hers was a comfort that loosed the self-control in which
she had held herself hitherto. Without any warning, she drooped as
she stood; her form grew limp. She would have fallen, had not Saxe,
in terror for her as he felt the yielding of her muscles, drawn her
to his breast. He held her close there. It seemed strange to him, as
she lay motionless within his embrace, the while his lips touched
softly a strand of the wonderful hair, that the glory of those
tresses should not make all things visibly radiant in the blackness
of the cavern, even as the nearness of her made a golden sunlight in
his heart. He did not utter a word or venture aught beyond the kiss
on that lock which kindliest fate had laid across his lips--only
rested motionless, holding her firmly, reverently, what time she
wept softly on his bosom. Surely, there needed no clumsy vehicle of
words between those two embraced in the solitary dark. Twain pulses
throbbed as one. In their rhythm ran a song of heavenly things.




CHAPTER XX

THE EVENTS OF A NIGHT


Since the large chamber was in utter darkness, Saxe decided on
recourse to a device which had served him well in similar situations
of his boyhood among the mountains. As soon as Margaret moved and
drew a little away from him, he spoke.

“We must step back to the passage-way,” he said. “From it, I can take
our bearings, so that we can cross the place without floundering
about haphazard in the dark.”

“Yes,” the girl answered. Her voice came very low, quavering a little.

Two paces brought them again to the entrance of the corridor. There,
with a hand touching either side, Saxe made sure of the exact
direction in which he faced, and from this he judged his course, for
he remembered the relative positions of the passage by which they
had come into the big room and of the shadows he had seen on the
opposite wall. He had in mind as well his estimate of the diameter of
the chamber, and so, when he had made sure of his direction he set
off boldly, after again taking Margaret by the hand. He lengthened
his stride a trifle, to make it the measure of a pace. When he had
counted fifteen steps, he reduced his speed, and moved with caution,
groping before him. A moment later, his hands encountered the wall.
He was confident that he had held his course fairly straight in
crossing the chamber, and was certain, in consequence, that the
opening into the passage must lie a little to his left. He therefore
drew Margaret in this direction. An instant later, to his joy, his
left hand found emptiness. Without a word, the two hurried forward,
and presently they saw before them a dim glow that was the first hint
of outer light. Saxe fell behind the girl as the passage narrowed.
Margaret quickened her steps to a run, and he held fast at her heels.
In the same second with her, he issued from the cavern, and sent
forth a huge shout, which was a little for escape from the cave, but
chiefly for a primitive, masterful delight in the woman beside him.
Margaret smiled sympathy with his mood--and her smile, it may be, was
divided in its sources, even as was the lover’s cry of triumph.

The girl’s face was mantled with blushes. But she spoke bravely, with
a dainty air of inconsequence.

“Why, how late it is!” She pointed toward the west. “See, the sun has
set already, we were in there for ages.”

“Yes,” Saxe agreed. “And it’s like rebirth to come back--rebirth into
a new, glorious life.” With an effort, he checked himself, for he
would not embarrass her now, though passion bubbled to his lips. “We
must paddle over to where the rest are, and let them know about the
cave at once.”

The news brought by the two created a lively excitement among
the others, along with a considerable feeling of relief, for the
continued absence of Margaret and Saxe had been inexplicable, until
Billy Walker quoted, with ostentatious carelessness:

  _Love’s a virtue for heroes--as white as the snow on high hills,
  And immortal as every great soul is that struggles, endures and
    fulfills._

At this utterance from the seer, who was by no means prone to
sentimental rhapsodizing, Roy appeared at first puzzled, then
enlightened, and he smiled--nor speculated more as to the whereabouts
of his missing friend, while David grinned appreciatively, and
accepted the innuendo as a sufficient explanation of Saxe’s absence
even in this crisis of affairs.

For the rest, the three, with some assistance from Jake, had passed a
busy afternoon, without accomplishing anything beyond a disheartening
certainty that the gold had been very effectually concealed. Much of
the cove was shallow, and Billy Walker had suited his convenience
by pursuing his investigations of these portions from the launch
which Jake guided to and fro as required. The clearness of the water
made it possible to see the bottom distinctly except at the greatest
depths, and in this comfortable fashion Billy conducted his search,
smoking the inevitable black cigar. In the deeper parts, Roy, clad
in a bathing-suit, made such examination of the bottom as he might
by diving. David either assisted Billy in the scrutiny from the
launch, or hunted over the islands near the shore. At no time did
it occur to them to extend their researches so far as the island
on which Saxe and Margaret had landed. They had just come to the
conclusion that they must give over work for the day, and were again
beginning to feel concern in regard to the continued absence of the
heir himself, when they were startled by a hail in the voice of the
missing man. They stared out over the lake, and perceived the canoe
darting toward them, with Margaret plying a skilled paddle from the
bow. Jake, who had just bent to the fly-wheel of the engine to crank
up, dropped again to the bench; the others stood up and shouted.
They had no least suspicion that the truants could be bringing news
of the treasure. When finally the light craft ranged alongside the
launch, and the story of the cavern was told, there were wonder and
satisfaction. Roy was the first to make a suggestion as to the course
to be pursued.

“The rest of you go on to the cottage,” he directed. “I’ll stay
here on guard, in case our friend, the engineer, should have a mind
to drop in on a visit. After dinner, let Jake bring me a snack to
eat, and I’ll keep watch through the night. You--” he turned toward
Margaret and Saxe--“can take me to the island, and show me the
entrance to the cave, and then leave me.”

There were protestations from the others, offers to share the watch
with him; but Roy resisted all importunities.

“I’d like to meet Masters again,” he declared, in his gentlest voice.
“I don’t want any help.” They recognized the emphasis of finality,
and forebore further argument.

But, when after dinner at the cottage Jake was about setting forth in
the launch with supplies for Roy, which in addition to food included
a pair of blankets and a lantern, David appeared at the boat-house,
and accosted the old man just as the propeller began to revolve:

“Hold your hosses, Jake!” he called; and the boatman obediently threw
out the clutch, and steered in a slowing circle to the dock. As he
came alongside, David produced--with a deftness of movement that
showed some degree of familiarity with gun-play--a very businesslike
appearing automatic, which lay snugly in his palm. With his other
hand, he brought forth a box of cartridges. These and the weapon, he
extended toward Jake.

“For Roy,” he explained. Jake nodded, and stowed the armament in a
locker.

The recipient of this equipment displayed small gratitude for his
friend’s thoughtfulness. On the contrary, he sniffed when Jake,
after beaching the launch on the strip of sand where Roy awaited his
coming, presented the automatic and cartridges as first fruits.

“I sha’n’t need a gun,” Roy declared superciliously; and his
pugnacious jaw was thrust forward yet once again. And, afterward,
when Jake had accompanied him to the cavern with the blankets and the
lighted lantern, the boatman’s well-meant offer to remain for the
night was rejected almost with indignation. “You don’t understand,
Jake,” Roy said, venomously. “I personally have an account to settle
with that infernal engineer.”

The old man grinned a cheerful appreciation of the situation.

“Of course,” he remarked, in a matter-of-fact tone, “you got quite
some hefty grudge agin ’im for the way he ducked your sweetheart.”

At this candid statement, Roy gaped in amazement.

“Why, how did you know she--” he began. Then, he halted in confusion.
For the first time in many years, he felt himself incapable of speech.

Jake chuckled in high good nature, and deemed that explanation enough.

“Well, lick ’im good, if ye ketch ’im,” he exhorted; and straightway
set out on his return to the cottage, where he and David were to
serve as guards throughout the night.

Thus left to his own devices, Roy proceeded to make himself as
comfortable as the circumstances of his situation would permit. He
was sure that the enemy would not appear on the scene for some time
yet, if at all, and in the interval before that possible coming he
proposed to make himself at ease. To this end, he placed the lantern
in the center of the chamber on the floor, and folded the blankets
into a comfortable rug, on which he seated himself cross-legged,
according to the fashion he had learned to like in the Far East. He
was at pains to have the luncheon-basket conveniently placed before
him, and now began an investigation of its contents with a curiosity
sharpened by keen appetite. He smiled contentedly as he brought out
a cold sliced fowl, fresh salad, a vacuum-bottle of hot coffee--the
dozen other things that would have made a formidable array, had it
not been for the strength of hunger with which he happily confronted
them. As he renewed energy with this repast, Roy smiled at the
contrast of its luxuriousness, as compared with many another that
had been his lot in the wild places. He was alone in the wilderness,
as often of old, but there the similarity ceased, for in those other
places, there had been no dainties, such as the ones before him, no
napkins of damask, or utensils of silver. And yet----

Roy broke off his musings, as he finished his third cigarette,
and set himself to make arrangements for the night. He removed
his blankets to a point against the wall of the cavern on the
side opposite the entrance, where a tiny recess offered partial
concealment. In this nook, he spread out the blankets, extinguished
the lantern, stretched himself in a comfortable posture, and thus
entered on the long vigil. He did not hesitate to doze, as he was
sure that he retained his old habit of becoming alert at the faintest
sound.

It was hours afterward when he became broad-awake in an instant. For
a time, he lay motionless, all his senses quickened. The blackness of
the chamber seemed impenetrable, yet his eyes stared steadfastly into
the dark, expectant for aught that might befall. It was on hearing,
however, that he depended chiefly to gather information, and his ears
were set keenly. Yet, though he listened so intently, minute after
minute passed, and there was no least interruption of the perfect
silence.

Roy found himself in a quandary. He gave Masters credit for a
shrewdness equal to the known unscrupulousness of the fellow.
Undoubtedly, the engineer had lurked on some vantage spot of the
shore throughout the day, and by this espionage had made himself
acquainted with the progress of events on the lake. If he had
perceived the landing of Margaret and Saxe on the island, as
probably, almost certainly, he had, he would have known also of their
long tarrying there, and of Roy’s remaining on the island. Perhaps
from some elevation Masters had followed all their activities through
a glass, and had been able by this method to inform himself precisely
concerning the location of the cavern in which Roy was lying.
Or, even, he might have come to the island, venturing in by the
north-east side, so that his approach would not have been observed by
the others. He could very easily have kept himself hidden afterward,
as the unevennesses of the island and the profuse growth of trees
and bushes offered ample concealment. But, whether the advent to
the island had been earlier or later, Roy was sure that it was now
accomplished, and that the engineer was there present in the chamber
with him. His sixth sense spoke the assurance.

After all, it was sight, and not hearing, that at last served to
guide the warden of the cavern. His eyes, which had been roving
vainly in an effort to pierce the black space, suddenly caught a
faintest glow. It was so indistinct, so subtly suggested rather than
seen, that for a little Roy believed his vision deluded by some
phosphorescence within his brain, which had set the nerves of sight
to vibrating. He closed the eyelids for a moment, then looked again.
The vague hint of radiance far remote still lingered. On the instant,
doubt vanished; in its stead came certainty.

There could be no question that the light shone from a distance. Even
the faintest spark anywhere near would have presented an appearance
radically different from this. The diffusion of it was proof that
its origin was in a light set a long way off. Finally, Roy guessed
that the source of it was shut out from his direct vision by some
obstacle intervening between him and it, while the nimbus extended
beyond the barrier, and thus became perceptible. If this were,
indeed, the case, it would be reasonable to suppose that the person
responsible for the light was equally far away. The conclusion was by
no means inevitable, but it was a fair assumption. Roy deemed himself
justified in acting upon it.

Forthwith, he got to his feet, using every caution to avoid the least
noise. When erect, he stood for a time listening, but could detect no
sound. He had removed his shoes before lying down, and now he went
forward in stockinged feet, very slowly, taking the direction whence
the light seemed to issue, although its feebleness made the location
far from sure. He used all the skill of which he was capable in this
advance, and did indeed contrive to avoid making any noise. When
he had gone for two rods, or more, he halted, and again listened.
Nothing, however, rewarded his attention, and presently he renewed
the tedious progress. Soon, it was borne in on him that the origin of
the light was within one of the passages leading downward, of which
Saxe had told him, and of which entrances had been observed by him
while he was eating his meal, though he had not troubled to examine
them. His sense of direction, strong naturally, had been developed by
experience, and he was convinced that the radiance streamed from the
passage that was on the left, as he faced the two.

From Saxe’s narrative, he knew that these tunnels were winding. The
fact would readily explain the manner of the light, visible where he
was in the big room like the afterglow from a sunset, with the cause
of it hidden beyond the turnings of the corridor in which it burned,
as the sun lies unseen below the horizon. With this understanding of
the situation, Roy felt an accession of confidence, and at once moved
forward more briskly in the direction from which the illumination
shone. He held his hands outstretched, for the light was still too
feeble to show objects round about him, even vaguely. Presently, his
right hand touched stone. After another step, his left hand also came
in contact with the wall, and he knew that he was within the passage,
though whether that on the right or on the left he could only guess,
nor did he regard the matter as of importance.

From this point onward, Roy’s advance, while made with unfailing
caution, was much more expeditious. His stockinged feet seemed to
possess a consciousness of their own, by which they searched for,
and found, the fragments of rubble that were smooth enough not to
cut, while solid enough not to yield a sound under the pressure of
his weight. And, as he went forward, the light increased, little
by little, until at last he could distinguish the sides of the
tunnel through which he was passing. Yet, even when the illumination
became sufficient to show what sort the footing, Roy chose still to
trust his sense of touch, and held his eyes alert for anything that
might appear in the distance beyond. He was aware that the passage
descended for a time, then mounted slowly, only to slope downward
again, and to continue thus. He noted, too, that sometimes it
widened, until he could touch only one wall. He mistook the opening
into the other passage for one of these broader places.

Roy aroused to the fact that the source of the light he sought was
itself advancing, even as he advanced. There was no other possible
explanation of the way in which it remained at about the same
brilliancy, though he went forward with good speed. By this time,
too, Roy was certain that the distance between him and the light was
such as to leave little danger in the slight noise of his progress.
So, he mended his pace, and soon perceived, with satisfaction, that
the radiance noticeably increased. He maintained the quickened speed
for a minute or two longer, then prudently moderated it again.
Indeed, so bright was the light now that he made sure of being very
close to the cause of it, and renewed the exercise of all his caution
as he crept forward. That this was none too much--nor, indeed,
enough--was shown by what presently followed.

Roy paused again, to examine the situation in detail. The brilliance
of the light now assured him that its source was shut from him only
by a single bend of the tunnel, which was hardly a rod in front. It
was plain, then, that the time had come for determining the manner
of his attack, since the moment could not be long delayed. He
had no intention of resorting to the weapon with which David had
equipped him. He planned that he would approach the turning of the
passage noiselessly, and seek to reconnoitre from that point without
being observed. Thereafter, as opportunity should serve, he would
steal upon his enemy unaware, overpower the fellow, handling him
with roughness enough to afford some adequate satisfaction for the
outrage against May Thurston, and finally, when the villain had been
reduced to passivity, hold him prisoner--to which purpose, at last,
the automatic might prove convenient. The arrangement was admirably
simple; there remained but to test its efficacy.

The length of tunnel thus traversed by Roy in his pursuit had been
considerable. Throughout the latter portion, the slope had been
downward, with frequent variations from a sharp incline to stretches
almost level. In the place to which he had now attained, the slant
was scarcely perceptible. At this distance from the big chamber, he
had long passed beneath the waters of the lake. The location of the
treasure might well be anywhere hereabouts, according to the saying
of the miser’s cipher. Roy was moved to devouring curiosity to learn
whether or no the man ahead of him had in truth come upon the gold.
If so, the accomplishment should avail the scoundrel little, he
vowed, and his jaw was thrust forward, as once again he advanced.

Roy looked to the placing of his feet for every step, neglecting no
precaution to avoid aught that might give warning of his approach.
In this stealthy fashion, he came to the turning of the tunnel, and
then, after another delay to make sure that his presence remained
unsuspected, he ventured to peer into the passage beyond the bend.
His heart exulted! Surely, fate had delivered his enemy into his hand.

A hundred feet beyond the corner from which Roy looked, a lantern
was set on the floor of the passage. This was the source of the
light that he had trailed so painstakingly. It burned clearly; the
radiance from it showed all about with distinctness. The conspicuous
thing on which the beams shone was the form of Masters, who was
kneeling and gazing fixedly down into an opening in the floor of the
cavern. The man was on the farther side of this, and so had his face
toward the watcher, but absorption in whatever was displayed beneath
him prevented his noticing the presence of the newcomer. Roy was,
therefore, able to continue his spying at ease. Curiosity, as well as
discretion, bade him delay attack. He was eager to learn the nature
of the engineer’s interest in the opening, and, too, the fellow’s
position, facing up the tunnel, rendered impossible at the moment
a rush that should take him by surprise. Undoubtedly, the engineer
would make some movement presently, which would place him more
conveniently for Roy’s purpose. In the meantime, it would be enough
to observe, and to await the right instant for assault.

It may be that Masters, too, possessed a sixth sense. Roy could never
be convinced that there was not something uncanny in the events that
now immediately followed. Masters jumped down into the opening,
where he stood with only head and shoulders exposed. Then, in an
instant, the light of the lantern vanished--with that, the crash of a
forty-five, thunderous there within the cavern. A second report came
in the same instant. A searing pain touched Roy’s brow, and he lay
unconscious.




CHAPTER XXI

THE FIRST PIT


At the cottage that same night, Margaret made an excuse of fatigue,
and withdrew to her chamber immediately when dinner was done, to the
discomfiture of Saxe. May Thurston, too, vanished--perhaps because
Roy was absent, and she preferred solitude in order that she might
think of him without interruption. Presently Mrs. West said good
night, and the three friends were left alone in the music-room. It
was then that Saxe proposed to give to Billy Walker some information
he had received from Margaret during their return trip in the canoe.

“I’ve found out who was in this room when you fell through the
ceiling,” Saxe said to the sage.

“Oh, that!” Billy retorted contemptuously. “It was of no importance.
I didn’t bother to tell you.”

“Do you mean,” Saxe demanded, in astonishment, “that you know
already?”

“Certainly,” was the crisp answer. “It was Chris.”

“But how----”

“Elimination. There was no problem of interest.”

“But----”

“Only a kindergarten form of ratiocination required,” the sage went
on, with an air of extreme boredom. “Cause--family devotion. Aged
and faithful servitor didn’t mean to let you deprive daughter of his
mistress of her share of the money--meant to beat you to it, like
Masters, but from a different motive, merely to keep it away from
you until the time limit should expire. Then, he observed symptoms
between you and the said daughter that convinced him of error in his
plans--made him realize that keeping the money away from you would
end in depriving her of half the gold while giving her a half. Being
emotional and devoted, he confessed to the girl. The girl felt it
her duty to confess to you. It is probable that Chris was the one to
discover the secret vault in the wall there, whom Roy, without due
reasoning, took to be Masters. Was it Chris?”

“Yes,” Saxe admitted. He was greatly disconcerted by his failure to
add anything to the seer’s knowledge.

“Bully for Chris!” David exclaimed. “Crafty old critter, too, to dig
into that safe. Huh! I’ve heard about that sort of devotion on the
part of old family servants, but it’s the first instance I’ve struck
in my own experience. Don’t have ’em in Wyoming.”

“Awful nuisance,” Billy Walker grumbled, “aged family
retainers--doddering remnants, always butting in!” He gaped
shamelessly, with a great noise.

Saxe, outraged by the sage’s flippant reference to sacred things of
his heart, felt himself indisposed for the further companionship of
his friends just then. It was this mood, rather than any anxiety
concerning the treasure, that led him to devise an excuse for
separation.

“Let’s get to bed,” he said, “and then make an early start for the
island in the morning.”

Billy Walker, whose lids were weighted by the day’s activities,
grinned contentedly at the first phrase, and scowled portentously at
the second.

“That’s the idea,” David agreed. “We’ll be off as soon as it gets
to be light. I’ll tell Jake to call us, and Mrs. Dustin to have our
breakfast ready.” He bustled out of the room, eager for the mission.

Billy Walker groaned.

“Dave is too precipitate,” he growled; “too precipitate by far.” He
rose and started for his room. “If we’re to arise at some ghastly
hour,” he explained to Saxe, “I musn’t lose an instant in getting to
bed. Brain-workers require ten hours of sleep. It’s different with
you others.” His feelings somewhat soothed by this gibe, he departed.

In consequence of David’s alertness, they were routed out of bed the
following morning while yet there was only the most pallid hint of
gray in the east to foretell the dawn. When Billy Walker found that
he required a lamp to direct the process of his toilet, he was in
a state of revolt. He was thoroughly disgusted when he discovered
artificial light a necessity at the breakfast-table. He made it plain
to all and sundry that nocturnal ramblings were not to his mind. But
he sank into wordless grief when the party set forth in the launch,
for darkness still prevailed, and he heard Jake announce that there
would be a full hour before the rising of the sun.

David, for his part, was all eagerness to be at work. Saxe, too,
now that he was in the open, gave over for a time his dreams of the
one woman, and was filled with zeal toward this final struggle for
the attainment of fortune. He believed that the day would determine
success or failure in the quest for Abernethey’s gold. He had seen
to it that the equipment contained whatever might be necessary for
thorough exploration of the cavern. In the launch were lanterns,
ropes, pickaxes, shovels, and a miscellany of things, selected by
himself, David and Jake in council. There was, too, a big hamper
of food, so that they would not need to return to the cottage for
luncheon.

On the arrival of the party at the island, they made their way at
once to the cavern, carrying only the lanterns. The other things were
left in the launch, to be got as occasion should require after the
preliminary search. None of them suspected that aught might have
befallen Roy in the cave. Although they had come to know something
of the desperate nature of Masters, they were confident that Roy’s
presence on watch would have sufficed to keep the engineer at a
distance. So they were all in the best of spirits, even to Billy
Walker who was at last fully awake, when, after lighting each a
lantern, they pushed aside the bushes that hid the break in the
cliff, and made their way through the rift into the great chamber. As
they stepped within it, they lifted their voices in joyous greeting
to their comrade. To their surprise, no answer came to the hail--only
innumerable echoes flung back from the recesses.

“He’s off, exploring on his own,” David remarked.

Billy Walker, who had been lurching clumsily here and there with
inquisitive eyes, examining the unfamiliar surroundings by the light
of his lantern, after the fashion of a modern Diogenes, now turned to
Jake with a question.

“How many lanterns did Mr. Morton have?” he demanded.

“Why,” drawled Jake, astonished at the interrogation, “he had jest
one, o’ course. What about it, Mr. Walker?”

“Simply, the fact is sufficient evidence to the effect that Roy
is not absent on an exploring expedition by himself, which was
David’s suggestion. Here is his lantern.” He stooped, with a groan
in response to the physical strain involved, picked up the lantern,
which he had observed at his feet where it stood beside the blankets,
and held it out for the others to see. “It’s quite cold,” he added.
“It hasn’t been lighted for some time.”

The others stared in silence for a little. Even yet, they were far
from suspecting any evil. It was Jake who spoke at last:

“I opine, he must have gone outside some’rs, to kind o’ stretch
’imself-like. Got too sleepy, maybe.”

But now, David shook his head decisively.

“No,” he declared. “Roy’s ears are mighty sharp, and we talked loudly
enough in the launch to be heard a mile--specially Billy. If Roy had
been anywhere on the island, top of the ground, he’d have heard us
then, and have come a-running.” David’s expression changed to one of
perplexity, in which alarm mingled. There was a new note of anxiety
in his voice as he concluded: “And, if he was anywhere about this
place, he’d have heard us, too, and have come a-running. And the
lantern here--” David’s big eyes, shining weirdly through the lenses,
went from one to another of the three men before him, as if seeking
help against the trouble growing within him.

“There’s some mystery here,” Saxe exclaimed. Anxiety sounded in his
voice. “We must search the cavern at once--for him. We already know
he’s not in this room. We’ll look through the two passages that run
down under the lake. Come on, Jake. You and I’ll take the one on the
right.” He called over his shoulder to his friends, as he hurried
forward: “You two take the passage on the left. If you find him, try
to make us hear.”

It was David who found Roy, for impatience sent him far in advance
of plodding Billy Walker. By the light of the lantern, David made
out the huddled form lying on the floor of the passage, just at
the turning. He ran forward with a cry of grief, and knelt beside
the body. It had come to him in a flash that the event was more
serious than anything he had apprehended. Masters had at last
gained a victim. With the lantern set on the floor close at hand,
David raised the body, which had been lying face downward. As he
did so, he perceived the creased brow, with its matting of blood,
now dried to a ruddy black. For an instant, David was stricken
with a great fear lest his friend be dead. But, as he rested the
head against him, a soft moan breathed from the lips, and at the
sound hope sprang alive. He sent forth a shout, and Billy Walker,
who was near, came running--for the first time in many years. No
sooner had he learned of the injury to Roy than he set himself to
summoning the others, and the vast voice rang thunderous through the
subterranean ways. The mighty volume went rolling in sonorous waves
throughout this secret place of the earth, penetrating every cranny
and devious winding nook. Saxe and Jake felt the smiting of it on
their ear-drums, and came racing through the break and into the
passage whence the roaring issued. Even the unconscious man was not
impervious to the gigantic din, he groaned, and his eyelids unclosed.
David raised a hand for silence, and Billy Walker halted abruptly in
his vociferation, his mouth wide. But, for a long time, the echoes
clanged helter-skelter.

When Saxe and Jake came, they with David lifted the sufferer, and
bore him along the passage, while Billy went before, bearing the four
lanterns. In this manner, they were able to make rapid progress,
and soon Roy was placed comfortably on the turf of the ravine, just
outside the cavern entrance, with a coat to pillow his head. David
brought water in one of the vessels from the hamper in the launch.
Billy Walker, however, bethought himself of a flask which he had,
and a little sup of the spirits was got into the wounded man’s
mouth. The effect of the stimulant was apparent almost at once. More
was administered, with such excellent results that soon Roy’s eyes
opened, and his lips moved in a vain attempt to speak. A moment
later, he made a feeble movement, as if to sit up. Saxe assisted
him to a reclining posture. When the flask was proffered a third
time, the sufferer was able to swallow a considerable portion of
the liquor. David now appeared with the water, of which Roy drank
thirstily. He remained quiet while David bathed his forehead, and,
after it had been thoroughly cleansed, soaked a handkerchief in
the whiskey, and bound it over the wound. Then finally, Roy spoke
intelligibly.

“The damned skunk got me!”

“Masters!” Saxe repeated the name mechanically. There was no need to
question--all knew.

Roy nodded assent; and his jaw moved forward, a bit tremulously, but
none the less a proclamation of his mood.

David shook his head, in frank astonishment over the outcome of the
encounter between the two men.

“Didn’t suppose he was quick enough on the draw to get you,” he said,
dispiritedly. “Huh!”

Roy resented the implication. His voice came with new strength,
almost snarling.

“Give the devil his due! He’s quick, all right. I didn’t mean to use
a gun. I chased him in the dark down there, and came up to him. I was
watching for a chance to jump him, when, somehow, he knew that I was
there. I don’t know what could have given him a hint. I didn’t even
guess that he had any suspicion. He fired two shots in a flash. I
didn’t see him so much as pull the gun. With the first shot, he put
out the lantern, which was a little way off from him. The second got
me.”

“But--in the dark!” David’s exclamation was incredulous.

“In the dark!” Roy repeated, weakly.

“Some class to that shooting,” David admitted, with manifest
reluctance.

Billy Walker sniffed loudly.

“Nonsense!” he exclaimed; and the bourdon tone went reverberating
afar. “You should exercise your reasoning powers, my dear David--if
you have them--the enemy had the devil’s own luck, that’s all.”

“In the dark!” David repeated, disputatiously.

“Exactly--in the dark,” Billy conceded. “Why was the place in
darkness? Because Masters shot out the light. Why did he shoot out
the light? In order to be invisible to Roy, and so to avoid being
killed himself. He didn’t wish to serve as a mark to the other man.
That means, he wasn’t at all sure of hitting the other man. He
chanced it, and he had the luck--better luck than he expected.”

Roy’s expression lightened greatly, as Billy presented this view of
the matter. It took something from the hurt to his pride sustained in
the encounter.

“I’d like to stand up to him,” he said, savagely; “luck, or no luck.”

Roy’s injury was no worse than a scalp-wound, and he was soon
sufficiently recovered to be hungry. Afterward, he solaced himself
with a cigarette, and declared that he would speedily be himself
again. He insisted that, in the meantime, the others should busy
themselves with the work in hand. He would remain where he was in the
pleasant sunshine, and the luxurious idleness of it would hasten the
restoration of his strength. Since there was no valid objection that
could be urged to this plan, it was followed. Pickaxes were secured
from the launch, and then Saxe led the way into the cavern. It was
the common mind that they should first investigate the passage in
which Roy had suffered defeat at the hands of the engineer.

The four hurried into the tunnel, and by the light of their lanterns
made good progress along the rough and winding way. In about ten
minutes, they reached the corner where Roy had stationed himself in
his pursuit of Masters. They knew that the enemy had been engaged
over something only a little distance beyond this point, and, as they
advanced, they kept careful watch for the opening in the floor of the
cavern. Presently, Saxe, who was still in the lead, uttered a shout.

“Here it is!”

As the others came up to him, he pointed to where, a few feet in
front, a break yawned in the flooring of the tunnel. Immediately,
all were grouped about the edge of the opening, staring down into it
with intense excitement. By this time, they had come to respect the
resourcefulness of the engineer and his ability. The fact that the
spot had held him absorbed appeared to them of high significance.
Since the man had searched here before their coming, was it not
probable that he had found the gold in this very place?

The opening was perhaps eight feet in length, by half as many in
width. The depth was irregular. On the south end, it was hardly more
than a foot below the level of the floor, running thus for a yard;
then, it sloped sharply and unevenly until it was a full two yards
in depth at the wall of the tunnel, on the side nearer the other
passage. The light of the lanterns shone on a litter of earth and
fragments of stone. There was no sign of either chest or bags that
might contain treasure. The four stared down in silence for a long
minute.

“We must dig here,” David said, eagerly. “The money must be buried
here.”

Jake leaped down into the pit, and inspected the confused mass of
fragments, while the others looked on curiously. Presently, he raised
his head, and spoke:

“I calc’late we’re a mite behindhand, as it were. This hole’s been
dug all over mighty careful--and mighty lately, too!”




CHAPTER XXII

THE OTHER PASSAGE


David voiced the general consternation: “By the Lord, Masters has got
the gold, after all!”

The following silence admitted the truth of his lament. Saxe’s face
set grimly. His tones came harsh, when at last he spoke:

“We’ll keep on hunting,” he said; “only, now we’ll hunt Masters.”

Jake stood disconsolate, scratching his head, and staring wistfully
from one to another. It was evident that he accepted the catastrophe
as irremediable. Not so Billy Walker! On the contrary, Saxe had
hardly done speaking when the voice of the wise man came booming the
decrees of ratiocination, with the usual pedantic note of authority:

“The trouble with the disorderly mind is,” he began, with didacticism
almost insulting, “that it jumps to a conclusion without due
consideration of all the facts. Suddenly confronted with one fact,
which is admitted, the illogical person reaches a judgment without
any scrutiny whatsoever of other vital facts concerned. Thus, in the
instance before us!” He paused, and his little dull eyes, twinkling
now from excitement, went from one to another of the three men before
him, who listened too anxiously to be in the least offended, for
his opening gave them hope. They knew by experience that Billy’s
reasoning, notwithstanding all his boasts, was, indeed, usually
exact, proven just by circumstance. The respectful attention on their
faces was grateful to the seer. As he continued, his manner was more
genial, though no less breathing the _ipse dixit_.

“Jake has discovered that someone has been before us here, digging in
this hole. That is one single, solitary fact. Instantly, all of you
impulsively take it for granted that Masters has found the gold here,
and has already removed it. As a matter of reason, the chances are
greatly against this unwarrantable assumption. It is only necessary
to consider all the facts in our possession to understand this.

“In the first place, the fact that this hole has been dug up recently
does not prove that there was gold hidden in it. As far as our
knowledge goes, the treasure may have been there, or it may not.
There is not a particle of evidence one way or the other. Masters was
after the gold. He hunted here. That’s all we know. We do not know
whether or not he found the money here. Even you chaps must admit
that much.” He regarded the trio with accusing glances, before which
they nodded a meek assent.

“Go on, Billy,” Saxe urged.

The undisguised interest of his audience served to set the orator
in the best of humors, so that he grinned cheerfully on them as he
resumed:

“There are some facts that tend to show the impossibility of Masters
having already removed the money from this place. It was late when
Roy got his hurt from the hands of the engineer. It is reasonable to
suppose that the fellow had had no chance to find, much less take
away, the gold before the time when he encountered Roy. Now, the
time that elapsed, after Roy received his wound until our coming to
the cavern, was not very long. You doubtless remember that we were
routed out at an unchristian hour, little better than the middle
of the night. In fact, the dawn was still on the other side of the
hills when we made the island. We were here not more than three hours
after Roy got shot, and it is more likely that the interval was
less. I am inclined to think it was perhaps not more than two hours.
David, here, knows something about gold and its weight. I submit as
reasonable the statement that, had Masters found the gold in this
hole, he could not in the time at his disposal have removed that
weight of metal to any distance without aid.

“We are justified in believing that he works unaided, for the sake of
greed and for the sake of prudence. If you bear in mind the length of
this passage, and the impossibility of traversing it except slowly
and cautiously, even unburdened, you will appreciate my reasons for
suspecting that Masters has not carried off the gold.” Billy stared
inquiringly at the listeners, and appeared elated as they severally
nodded agreement.

“No,” David declared, “I believe it would have been next to
impossible for him to have got away with it, even if he hid it close
by on the island. From the way the blood on Roy’s face was caked,
and the color of it, I don’t believe it had been an hour after the
shooting when we got here.”

“If you’re right about that,” Billy averred, “it makes the
probability of my reasoning a certainty.”

“I’m pretty sure,” David answered. “I’ve seen bullet-holes enough to
be pretty sure.”

“Why, then,” Saxe exclaimed, briskly, and there was new confidence in
his voice, “it seems to me that we’re just where we were--with the
gold still to find. In the first place, we must make sure that it
isn’t still here in this pit, and, if it isn’t, we must go ahead with
the search of the cavern, until we find out where it is.”

Billy emitted a rumbling chuckle, as Saxe leaped down into the pit,
and raised a pickaxe.

“My dear boy,” the sage cried, in bantering compliment, “for once you
have reasoned simply and precisely. Bravo!”

Not much time was required to make evident the fact that there could
be nothing of value concealed in the pit. The litter was readily
penetrated, and revealed beneath it solid rock, undisturbed since
first set there by the processes of primeval ages. The discovery
was a source of relief, rather than of disappointment, and Saxe,
doubtless encouraged by the tribute accorded to his reasoning powers
by Billy Walker, called attention to the fact that the amount of
loose matter in the pit was far from being sufficient to have
concealed any great bulk of gold. It was, therefore, reasonable to
suppose that the treasure had never been buried in this place.

The seer gave a grunt of approbation.

“You advance by leaps and bounds,” he declared.

Exploration of the continuance of the passage was speedily effected,
as it narrowed immediately beyond the pit, and came to a definite
end within ten yards. Thereupon, the four retraced their steps,
inspecting with care every inch of the way, until they reached the
break that formed a communication between the two tunnels. It was
decided now that the party should divide, Billy and David keeping on
in this passage, while Saxe and the boatman crossed into the other,
there to follow its length under the lake.

Saxe knew that he and the girl had gone a little way beyond the
junction of the passages, and he was intensely eager to learn what
might lie farther on. Hope mounted high as he set forth down the
slope, with Jake hard at his heels. He realized that, for ill or
weal, he was close to the issue of his adventure, and he dared expect
success.

The way at first led downward steeply, but afterward, at a point
which, as Saxe judged, was still well within the island, the tunnel
ascended for a time, then ran level. This level broadened presently
into a chamber, larger even than that back at the entrance to
the cavern. Their lanterns showed a room fully a hundred feet in
diameter, irregular, its walls broken by many ledges, with here and
there deep shadows that might shroud the entrances to other passages.

“It’s not the place, though,” Saxe declared; “for we are too high.
This isn’t under the lake--and the cipher says, ‘The Bed of the
Lake.’ Come on, Jake.”

He led the way toward a tunnel that yawned blackly on the south side
of the chamber. This sloped sharply downward, without a bend. Saxe,
who possessed an instinct for location that was rarely at fault,
had kept careful watch of every change in direction throughout the
exploration.

“Jake,” he said abruptly, after the straight course had been followed
for a few rods, “if we keep on like this, we ought to hit the passage
where the pit is.”

“I guess not,” the boatman objected. “We’ve been all over that-thar
tunnel, and there ain’t no place where this-here tunnel comes into
it. Now, what do ye say to that, Mr. Temple, eh?”

“Not a blessed thing,” Saxe replied. “You’re right, of course, and
yet--anyhow, I’d be willing to wager we’ll run within a rod of the
other passage, at farthest.”

“Ain’t no way of settlin’ that-thar idee o’ your’n,” Jake commented,
with a cackle. “Guess as how I don’t pine to bet none.”

The two went on in silence after this, moving at a fair rate of
speed, for the tunnel was only slightly encumbered with débris, but
they did not permit haste to breed neglect of their purpose. Ever, as
they went, they kept a careful lookout for aught that might by any
possibility be a hiding-place for the miser’s gold. On either side,
they looked, above, below--always in vain. Nowhere in the descent was
there anything to suggest a receptacle for stores of precious metal.
Suddenly, Saxe, who from his place in advance had been peering before
him anxiously, spoke in a voice of discouragement:

“Jake, I believe we’re coming to the end of it.”

The boatman quickened his steps, and reached the speaker’s side.
The two halted. By the light of their lanterns, they saw a wall of
stone, which barred further passage. Here was, indeed, the end of the
tunnel. Jake nodded his head.

“Yes,” he agreed, “it’s the end, sure enough.”

“The floor is broken!” Saxe cried, of a sudden. In an instant, he was
surcharged with excitement. Jake, too, was thrilled. Together, they
stared fixedly at the space that stretched level from their feet to
the end of the tunnel. Wildest hope was welling in Saxe’s breast now.
In the interstices of broken rock before him, imagination caught the
yellow gleam of coins.

For, at this point, the floor of the cavern showed some evidence of
containing a natural opening similar to that in the other passage, at
the place where Roy had seen Masters. But, where the other opening
had been plainly visible, and, in fact, only partially filled by
the pieces of stone within it, this was full to the top with rock
fragments, neatly compacted--so neatly compacted, in truth, that it
were easy to suspect the cunning of man in their precise adjustment,
rather than the haphazard of nature. Gazing down on that orderly
arrangement, the two men became certain that here, at last, was the
spot chosen by the dead miser for the concealment of his store. Yet,
for a little, each hesitated to begin the examination that would
prove conclusive. They were half-fearful of putting conviction to the
test of proof. Perhaps, too, the delight of anticipation held them in
thrall. Saxe walked slowly along one side of the broken place, until
he came to the end of the tunnel. There, something in the rocky wall
caught his attention, and he regarded the terminal formation more
critically. Presently, he turned to Jake, and spoke with an air of
triumph:

“I’m sure I was right about this passage running to the one where we
found Roy. This is a continuation of the other. The opening in the
floor here is the other half of the one into which Masters burrowed.”

“Well, maybe so, maybe so,” Jake replied, in a voice that was plainly
skeptical. “But jest how do ye make out all that-thar information?”

“By my bump of location, chiefly,” Saxe admitted. “But there’s
corroborative evidence in the fact that the wall here is only a big
boulder, along with a lot of smaller stones which block the passage.”

“Well, so be,” the boatman commented placidly, “I don’t calc’late as
how it makes a mighty sight o’ difference, one way or t’other. The
p’int is, what in tarnation’s under here?”

“Of course,” Saxe conceded. “Merely, it pleases my vanity to have
been right.” He came to the old man’s side, and spoke with a quick
sharpness in his tone: “And now, Jake, let’s find out if there’s
anything here.”

A few blows from the pickaxes loosened the closely packed pieces of
stone. The two then began to cast out these to one side. They found
the work simple enough, though fatiguing, for many of the rocks were
of formidable weight; but all were lying loosely, once the top layer
had been removed.

Saxe paused for a brief rest, after having with difficulty heaved a
huge stone from the pit.

“Mr. Abernethey never could have handled these,” he exclaimed. “The
idea is absurd.”

The boatman shook his head in emphatic denial.

“Don’t you go worrying yourself none over that,” he counseled.
“That-thar old man was a wonder in some ways. He was mighty powerful
in his arms and chist. I seen him oncet lift a barrel o’ vinegar up
by the chines into a wagon. I reckon he acquired consid’ble muscle
from the pianner; he used to wallop it some tremendous, I tell you!
Yep, he could h’ist out a heftier rock nor you or me.”

This information quickened Saxe’s hope, and he toiled on with
increased energy. The boatman showed an equal zeal. The pit grew
deeper momently. Suddenly, Jake gave forth a great shout:

“Jumpin’ Jehosaphat! We’ve struck it!” He straightened up, his face
creased with innumerable wrinkles of happiness as he looked across
the pit at Saxe.

The heir of Abernethey was beside the speaker within the second. As
he bent forward, following the boatman’s gesture, he saw, in the
open place left by the removal of the stone, a surface of oak. He
understood that this must be the cover of a chest. An exclamation
of triumph broke from his lips. He made no effort to conceal his
agitation.

“Quick! Quick!” he cried. “Let’s get the other stones off.” He hurled
from the pit with ease one which, a minute before, he could hardly
have stirred. The splendid madness of success tripled strength. The
old man beside him shared in the frenzy of toil. Within an incredibly
short time, the oak covering was laid bare, and one corner of the
chest stood exposed for its whole height. It was a great box of
polished wood, brass-bound at the corners. The cover was made fast by
hasp and padlock--the whole simple, yet very strong and handsome.

“Hurrah!” Jake cried, as he paused from the work to wipe his dripping
forehead.

“Hurrah!” Saxe answered, as he, too, rested. Then, he remained
staring at the mighty box, wherein lay a fortune. He was too dazed
by the final victory to think with coherence: he could but feel, with
every atom of the energy in him.

There was no further interchange between the two for some time. In
silence, they again attacked the litter of rock that surrounded the
chest. It was freed at last from the rampart that had shielded it.
Jake put his shoulder against the side, and essayed an experimental
push. With a groan from the strain, he abandoned the futile effort.
There was vast contentment in his smile when he spoke:

“I calc’late that-thar box will heft pretty consid’ble. It’s gold,
all right.”

“Yes, it’s the gold,” Saxe agreed, dreamily. He was thinking of
Margaret now, and he smiled as he reflected on the fact that the
miser’s legacy would fall to her and him together. A great longing to
be alone assailed him. He turned impulsively to the boatman.

“Hurry, and find the others, Jake!” he directed.

“You bet ye!” the boatman responded, with alacrity. He was eager
to bear the tidings. In a trice, he had scrambled out of the pit,
seized his lantern, and set off briskly up the slope of the tunnel.

Left alone, Saxe lighted a cigarette, smiling a little as he noted
the manner in which his hands were trembling. Then, he seated himself
comfortably at the edge of the pit, and gazed raptly down on the
treasure-chest.




CHAPTER XXIII

THE BLAST


Roy, after an hour of basking on the turf in the mellow warmth of
the sunshine, felt himself his own man again, in spite of the dull
pain in his head. Curiosity spurred him to action. He stretched
himself luxuriously, then stood up, bent his right arm until the
biceps was iron hard, to prove that the strength was still in him.
Thereafter, he made his way into the cavern. When he had come into
the big room, he found his lantern by the aid of matches, lighted
it, and then paused, listening, uncertain as to which of the two
passages he should follow. He could hear nothing, and presently
decided on the left one, in which he had met his discomfiture. He
traversed this until he reached the rift that gave communication with
the adjacent tunnel. Here, again, he halted, to give ear intently,
and once again he could detect no sound. He decided that his friends
must be somewhere in the passage on the right, and crossed into
it, continuing the descent. He had not gone far when he heard the
familiar roaring of Billy Walker’s voice, and knew that those whom he
sought were ahead of him in the tunnel. He quickened his steps, and,
much to his astonishment, found that the way now led upward, rather
steeply. He reached a level, and heard the huge voice of the sage,
followed by the mellow peal of David’s laughter. An instant later, he
stood within the second chamber of the cavern, and called out to his
friends, who were moving slowly along the side opposite him.

Just as the two turned in surprise on recognizing the wounded man’s
voice thus unexpectedly, another noise caught their ears, and caused
them to check the greetings on their lips. From the third passage
came the clatter of feet running swiftly over the stone floor. As
they gazed, the squat figure of Jake darted into the room, to halt,
panting, as his eyes fell on the three men.

“Hurrah!” the boatman gasped weakly, for the hasty pace from the pit
below had winded him. He swung his lantern in a flourish of triumph.

The glee of the man permitted only one possible explanation. The
three witnesses of that exultant entrance knew that the treasure had
been found. Forthwith, they shared the messenger’s excitement. Jake
told his story in few words. Within a half-minute of his coming, the
four were hurrying down the third passage, toward the spot where Saxe
was waiting beside his chest of gold. He heard the noise of their
approach, and, with a little start, aroused himself from the blissful
dreaming into which he had fallen, wherein the gold of a woman’s hair
had counted as of more worth than that locked in the brass-bound box
at his feet.

There ensued a period of general joy, though the specific causes of
delight varied somewhat. Jake took keen pleasure in the fact that
the one exciting incident of a humdrum life was ending in success.
David was glad that the adventure on which he had embarked was
achieved with victory to his friend’s hopes. Roy was savagely pleased
over this discovery, which thus summarily put an end to Masters’
ambitions. Billy beheld with pride a final vindication of his
exactitude in ratiocination. Saxe was happy in the thought that here
was wealth to offer the one whom he loved. The subtly sweet flavor
of that happiness was in the knowledge that the way to it had been
pointed by her whom his friends had called his logical enemy. His
enemy--she, Margaret! His lips curved to a tender smile.

Roy promptly assumed control of the operations involved in the
disposal of the treasure. He had been a practical miner, was skilled
in ingenious devices for the moving of heavy weights. He appointed
David, who had had similar experiences, his chief helper. Billy
Walker seated himself as comfortably as he might on one of the
fragments cast up from the pit, and prepared to offer such comments
on future events as should suggest themselves to an orderly and
logical mind. Jake proposed breaking open the lock, and then loading
themselves with as much gold as they could carry, for transportation
to the launch. Roy refused acceptance of this simple method.

“It must weight about a thousand pounds,” he said. “It’s too heavy
for us to carry all the way to the shore alone. Bring that heaviest
cable from the launch, Jake, and the pulley-tackle that’s in the
locker. Do that first. Perhaps Dave and I may be able to rig the
pulley, and haul the chest up into the room above. Then, after you’ve
brought the rope, go in the launch, and get half-a-dozen men from
the Landing, to help. Bring along, too, four heavy poles. We’ll lash
those on, to serve as handles in carrying the chest to the launch.
Arrange for a lumber wagon at the Landing. Miss Thurston told me
there’s a bank at the nearest town--Hadley--about three miles from
the Landing. Eh?” Jake nodded assent. “The day’s young yet,” Roy
concluded. “We’ll land Abernethey’s gold in the bank before night.”

“Bank shets up at three o’clock,” the boatman objected.

“It’ll open again fast enough for what’s in this box,” Roy retorted.
“You hurry up that cable, Jake.”

“I’ll go with him,” David said. “It may need more than the cable
length for the business, it’s quite a stretch up that slope.” Roy
nodded assent, and the two hastened off.

During their absence, Roy, with the assistance of Saxe, busied
himself in arranging a smooth plane of stones in that end of the pit
nearer the ascent, in such fashion as to afford an easy slide for
the chest. Soon, the cable was brought, and, while the others devoted
themselves to the adjustment of this, Jake departed on his mission to
the Landing.

The workers in the tunnel found themselves confronted with serious
difficulty when it came to passing the rope underneath the chest. It
required the joint efforts of the four, though Billy Walker’s aid was
not contributed without expostulation against the uselessness of this
part of the labor. In the end, however, what by great exertion on the
part of each and by the employment of the pickaxes as levers and bits
of rock as supports, the task was achieved, and the rope was got in
position under the chest. The remainder of the business was simple
enough. In a short time, the box was firmly set within the hempen
bands, knotted with seamanlike smartness by Roy, and the main length
of the cable was free for adjustment to block and tackle. The extent
of it, to Roy’s relief, proved ample for the purpose, and forthwith
he and David carried the free end of it up the slope to the level of
the chamber, in quest of some projection of rock to which the hook of
the block might be made fast. Saxe and Billy remained below, beside
the treasure-chest.

Saxe lighted another cigarette, Billy had recourse to one of his
customary black cigars, and the two smoked contentedly in silence.
Saxe could hear indistinctly from time to time the movements of
Roy and David, busy on the level above. And then, presently, his
ears detected another sound. He listened--idly at first, soon with
growing interest, finally with intent curiosity, which swiftly became
excitement. The noise was faint, intermittent, yet persistent. In
his earlier attention to it, Saxe found difficulty in locating the
direction whence the sound issued, but, later on, he became sure
that it had its origin somewhere in the other passage, beyond the
barrier that divided the pit into two parts. The fact filled him with
amazement. He knew the whereabouts of all in his own party. He could
still hear Roy and David, active on the level above; Billy Walker was
there present with him by the pit; Jake, ere this, was on his way to
the Landing in the launch. It was impossible that the boatman should
have disobeyed instructions, to return into the other passage for
some mysterious purpose of his own. But, since all the members of
his party were thus accounted for, the explanation of that persistent
sound there beyond the barrier became more difficult. It was certain
that someone was occupied at the end of the other passage. Who,
then, could that person be? It could not be Margaret, the only other
who knew the entrance to the cavern. No, not the only other who
knew--there was Masters! On the instant, as the thought came, Saxe
knew that the enemy was again at work.

The reason baffled the listener. What could the man of treacherous
schemes be doing thus on the wrong side of the barrier? Saxe felt
the puzzle too hard for his solving, and turned to Billy Walker,
seeking the light of pure reason to clear away the mists of darkness
with which the event was shrouded. The sage was nodding in somnolent
relaxation, though still puffing his cigar.

“Wake up, Billy!” Saxe called, softly.

The dozing man straightened, and the small eyes opened on the
disturber in an indignant stare.

“I’m not asleep,” he remarked crossly, following the universal habit
of denial in such case.

“Well, then, listen,” Saxe requested. “Don’t you hear that
noise--like somebody pounding?”

The sage gave ear obediently. It was evident that, after a moment
of attention, he perceived the noise, for his expression brightened
to one of interest. His inference as to the significance of the
occurrence was not left long in doubt. He turned presently to Saxe,
with a wide grin on his heavy lips.

“Our nimble and indefatigable friend is at his old tricks again,” he
declared, in a whisper, without the least hesitation. “There remains
for our deduction the precise variety of this latest deviltry.”
Having thus delivered himself, the oracle closed his eyes, and, while
continuing to listen, scowled portentously in token of absorbed
ratiocination, which Saxe was at pains not to interrupt. It was
perhaps two minutes before Billy Walker spoke again. When he did so,
there was unaccustomed liveliness in the method of his delivery; he
displayed an agitation that first startled Saxe, then alarmed him.

“You said that Miss West mentioned another entrance to this cavern;
Masters has probably availed himself of that. He has spied on us,
and so has learned of our discovery of the treasure here. He has not
dared to attack the lot of us openly. Very likely, he believes it
will take us a considerable time to get out the chest. He may have
come near enough to hear Roy and Dave up there, and from the silence
between you and me he has supposed no one left here. He intends to
get a hole through the barrier there, then to have the chest open,
and to help himself to what he can while nobody’s looking. He may
expect to have the whole night to work in. Of course, there’s a
possibility he may mean just to get a loophole, and then pick us off
one by one. That’s not likely, but he’s capable of anything.”

“He’ll have something of a job to break through there,” Saxe objected.

“Oh, dynamite is a quick worker,” the sage vouchsafed.

“Dynamite!” Saxe repeated, aghast.

“Yes, dynamite,” Billy stated again, with emphasis. “We know that
he understands how to employ the explosive on occasion.” He stood
up, seized his lantern, and started at a half-trot up the ascent.
“Probably, he wouldn’t mind much if some of us got hurt.” He turned
his head to shout raucously over his shoulder at Saxe, who below
him stood staring in horrified amazement: “But he’ll be at a safe
distance, and--so’ll I.” He ran on, wheezing grievously. Yet once
again, he turned to roar toward his friend, in a voice of menace:
“Run, you blithering idiot--for your life!”

At that, the paralysis of astonishment fell from Saxe. He, in turn,
caught up his lantern, and set off racing up the slope. He had gone
scarcely a dozen steps when a report sounded behind him. It was
not loud--indeed, it was so faint and muffled that, for a moment,
Saxe doubted if, in truth, this could be the explosion prophesied
by Billy Walker. He halted and looked back. From his position, he
could see with sufficient clearness to the barrier. In the dim light,
he could distinguish no apparent change in the aspect. Then, of a
sudden, his eyes fell on a rush of waters near the floor at the end
of the passage. Now that the echoes of the detonation had passed,
he heard the hissing of their flow. Even as he stared, astounded,
vaguely terrified, though without understanding of the catastrophe,
the flood mounted visibly. In a flash of horror, Saxe realized the
peril darting upon him. He whirled with a great cry and fled from the
death that menaced. A swift glance over his shoulder as he reached
the level, showed the boiling element hard on his heels. He shouted
a second time, in futile warning to his friends. In the next moment,
the light of his lantern revealed Billy Walker, running at a good
pace just before him.

“Masters has let in the lake!” Saxe cried frantically in his friend’s
ear, as he came abreast.

There was no need of the telling. Even as he spoke, the first waves
lashed their feet. No time was given them to mend their speed.
Before they could do more than realize the coming of the flood, it
had reached to their waists, to their armpits. They had dropped the
drenched lanterns--they were swimming blindly on the rushing torrent.
But Billy, whose bulk kept him afloat easily, had put out a hand,
so that he held fast to Saxe’s collar. Thus, they were borne onward
together through the fearful blackness, tossed and torn by the coil
of waters. That contact of each with the other was their single
comfort.

Of a sudden, they felt themselves twisted violently to one side.
Then, for once, the majestic volume of Billy Walker’s voice served
his necessity. The words bellowed in Saxe’s ear came softly, as from
an infinite distance, yet clearly.

“There’s no turn like that--we’re in the chamber. Make to the
left--to the ledges, for your life! It’s our only chance.”

By mercy of fate, the eddy helped them on their course. But for that,
they could never have won through against the mighty urge of the
current. The eddy sent them far to the left, and they fought on with
all their strength, when the pull of it would have swung them back
toward the vortex. Then as he felt that he could strive no more, Saxe
felt his fingers touch on stone. While his hand rasped on the rock
for hold, his feet found footing. In the next moment, he realized as
never before the great strength of his companion. A violent thrust
upward fairly shot him clear of the water. Before he had time to help
himself, Billy was again at his side, was dragging him still higher
on the tumble of rocks.

“To the top!” boomed the sage. “It may be high enough, and it may
not. Anyhow, it’s the only chance.” And, presently, the two were on
the summit of the pile of stone. Below them, the writhing waters
clamored in rage. But the flood did not reach to them. Each second,
Saxe expected to feel the swirl of it about his feet, leaping to
engulf him; he was shuddering from dread of it. The quick horror of
the event bred cowardice. Then, yet once again, he heard the huge
voice of his friend.

“We’re safe--safe!”

But Saxe could not believe him.

“How do you know?” he shouted.

The sage had not heard the feebler tones through the din, but he
guessed the question.

“The water just reaches my foot. It has mounted no higher through a
full minute.”

“But it may yet.”

This time, Billy heard.

“Use your reason, the water at my foot marks the level of the lake.
It can rise no higher. Cheer up, my boy.”




CHAPTER XXIV

ENTOMBED


For a little, after he had realized the fact that the water could
mount no higher, Saxe experienced such joy as must come to any normal
person on escaping out of the peril of death. Ultimately, however,
the first emotion wore itself out by its own intensity, and he was
left free to think coherently again. The result was disastrous. There
leaped in his consciousness the hideous truth that death was not
avoided, only postponed. This refuge on the heap of rocks offered
safety from drowning, from being crushed by the waves against the
walls. It gave no more. On this tiny island, the two were marooned,
with naught to expect save a slow, a frightful death. They had been
borne hither on the first in-rush of the waters, and only the height
of the cavern had saved them at that time. Now, there was no means
by which they might make their way out from this prison. Beyond the
chamber in which they were, the passage that led to the outdoors
first dipped sharply. For a great way it must be filled with the
flood. Margaret West had spoken of another entrance somewhere, but
she had told him nothing in detail. It was evident that this could
not be in the chamber, or if there, it must be covered by the lake’s
flow, incapable of affording egress. Had it place near the roof, the
light of it must have shown clearly against the Stygian blackness.
And there was no faintest gleam of light anywhere. Saxe’s eyes roved
in fierce longing, but nowhere was there aught except the total
darkness. For once, the sage had reasoned ill. There had been grisly
mockery in his cry that they were safe--in this place where there
could be no safety. This was in truth the safety of the tomb--a
narrow perch whereon to attend death, to wait, supine, impotent,
for a laggard dissolution by starvation. And Billy realized now the
dread certainty of their plight; otherwise, he had not sat there in
grim silence. Surely, Roy and David had the better part, since their
engulfment had been swift. They were spared the lingering tortures
of these survivors, destined to a few dreadful hours. Then Saxe
remembered the miser’s gold, and the hate of it welled high in his
heart. Truly, there had been a curse on it! And the wretched man
thought of Margaret most of all. But that which he thought of her
should not be written. It was the supreme agony.

Saxe had the courage of the strong man, but nature permits no man to
lay down his life uselessly without revolt. Neither Saxe nor Billy
was a coward, yet each was craven there in that eyrie above the
flood, which imprisoned them in eternal night. The crime of Masters
had brought wanton destruction upon them. There was no solace of
justice in this doom. They were abandoned of hope. Their hearts were
sick within them.

Billy Walker spoke at last, and his voice was humbler than its wont,
less sonorous, too. The first angry uproar of the waters was ended
now, although they were rippling and swirling daintily still, as if
in tender caresses of the rocks, which so recently they had smitten
in fury. Above the gentle noise of the eddies, the sage’s voice, mild
as it was comparatively, sounded clearly. Instantly, a cry came from
the far side of the chamber.

“Billy! Billy! You’re alive!”

It was Roy’s voice, and another voice broke in on the words,
shouting shrilly:

“Billy! Thank God!” It was David’s voice.

Billy roared so joyously that all other tones were lost for a time,
but, at last, Roy and David caught Saxe’s higher pitch, and they were
glad anew. Across the room, questions and answers were volleyed. It
was made known that Roy and David, at the first rush of the lake upon
them, had held to the projections of the rock where they had just
made fast the tackle, and had climbed higher until they were safe
above the flood. Now, they rested aloft on a tiny shelf of stone,
only a little way beneath the roof, and they, even as Saxe and Billy,
realized to the full the impossibility of escape from this sepulchre
within the earth. And Roy lamented in characteristic fashion, after
Saxe and Billy had explained the cause of the lake’s in-flow, which
had been a mystery to the other two.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t have had a chance at Masters before he went.”

David’s voice, usually so kindly, was harsh as he spoke:

“The skunk got us, after all,” he mourned. He added, with frank
ferocity: “Damn him!” He knew, as did the others, that such speech
concerning the dead was unseemly. Yet none rebuked him. For a moment,
the warmth of wrath was comfort against the chill desolation of their
case.

Nevertheless, Billy Walker’s ruling passion was so strong that not
even death might daunt it. The action of Masters required some
explanation, to make all clear before the less-orderly minds of
his friends. So, after a period of reflection, he expounded his
understanding of the engineer’s part in the final act of their drama.
The volume of his voice was such that he did not need to go beyond
his usual conversational thundering to be heard distinctly by those
on the opposite side of the chamber.

“Masters, naturally, didn’t mean to do this thing,” he declared. “He
wasn’t the type to commit suicide. He kept track of us all the time.
How he did it doesn’t matter especially. Probably, he used another
entrance to the cavern, which we don’t know. Anyhow, he learned what
it was we had found down this way. I guess he spied on us, and heard
you, Roy, and Dave, working on the tackle, and took it for granted
we were all here together. He thought he could burrow through, and
get at the gold himself while we were off after help. He meant to
blow an opening just big enough to get through, I fancy. He failed
to take into consideration the frailness of the roof that stood
between the passage and the lake. He blew a hole in the bottom of
the lake--and that was the beginning of our troubles, and the ending
of his. He couldn’t find a refuge like ours in that other passage.
_Exit_ Masters--I regret our fate, but not his.” With this succinct
statement, the sage relapsed into silence, which continued until Roy
relieved his overwrought feelings by a denunciation against fate.

“I’ve been on the edge of dying many a time,” he declared, bitterly;
“but I was never up against this sort of thing before, and I’m free
to say that I don’t like it. There’s some satisfaction in being done
to death in a good fight, or in battling your best against any kind
of odds. Of course, a man doesn’t exactly want to die, any time. But
what puts me in the dumps is this particular variety of dying that
we’re up against here. We’ve got to sit roosting on a shelf in the
dark, like a heathen idol in a temple after it’s been buried in an
earthquake--and we’ve just got to sit till we starve to death. I do
hope I run across Masters in the next world.”

“Let us hope for your own sake that both you and Dave do not have
your wishes granted concerning Masters in the next world,” Billy
exclaimed. The grim jest was not amusing in their situation. The
three hearers shivered a little, and were silent.

Afterward, the four gave themselves to serious meditation, as is
fitting to men in the presence of death. On one occasion, Billy,
in answer to a question from David, discoursed freely on the
reasonableness of belief in a future life, and pleaded in defense
of such faith with a lucid sincerity and completeness that first
surprised, then comforted his audience. Each, after his own fashion,
believed in the continuance of life through death; none the less,
each was loath to put off the garment of mortality. Billy Walker
would fain have remained on earth for a larger accumulation of its
wisdom, with which, as it seemed to him, he had only just begun.
Saxe’s heart was near to breaking over the knowledge that he must
go from Margaret into the unknown places, where she would not be.
Roy felt the like desolation because of May. David, since he had no
particular thing to regret with superlative sadness, let his longing
touch on many things, and grief was heavy upon him, because he must
lose all--all!

A single incident afforded the unhappy men diversion from their
plight. After some discussion, it was agreed that it would make the
situation a trifle less dreary if the four of them were gathered in
one place, instead of being divided by the width of the chamber.
The shelf on which Roy and David had ensconced themselves was not
of a size sufficient to accommodate the other two. For that matter,
its dimensions were unduly restricted even for those already there.
On the other hand, the top of the heap of rocks up which Saxe and
Billy had climbed afforded ample room for all, besides giving better
opportunity for the securing of water to drink, since the massed
stones were easy of ascent and descent. Unfortunately, there was a
difficulty in the way of consummating the assembly of the four in
the one place, due to the fact that David could not swim. It was
arranged finally, however, that Billy Walker should swim across the
chamber, being guided by the voices of Roy and David, and that then
he and Roy should support the other across to the heap of stones,
being guided in turn by the voice of Saxe, who would remain behind
for that purpose. At once, when this arrangement had been made, Billy
clambered down the rocks with many a sigh, until the water supported
him. Then, he swam easily to the point from which Roy was calling.
David let himself down into the water through the blackness without
demur as his friends bade him, and very quickly he was carried across
to the place indicated by the voice of Saxe. A minute later, the
four friends were reunited on their microscopic island, and the fact
yielded them a pleasure melancholy and fleeting, yet a pleasure, an
alleviation, where no alleviation had seemed possible.

Even in this fatal plight, the sage preserved his serenity, and from
time to time startled his companions by his utterances, thus breaking
in by ever so little on the torment of their spirits. They had just
finished drinking as best they might from cupped hands dipped into
the water at their feet, and David had spoken of being already
hungry, when Billy laughed in his usual noisy outburst.

“Exactly!” he exclaimed. “Always, when a man is confronted with
absolute lack of provisions, he at once develops a ravenous appetite.
He may have eaten five meals on the day of the wreck, and have gorged
to repletion five minutes before the ship foundered. When he has
become acquainted with the fact that he is adrift on the ocean in
an open boat with only a few drops of water in the beaker, and ten
wormy biscuits for six persons, he immediately begins to feel the
gnawing pangs of ravenous hunger and deadly thirst. Naturally it
will be so with us. David has already spoken. For my part, I confess
that I, too, hear the generalissimo of the belly clamoring for
reinforcements, although I enjoyed a capital and capacious breakfast,
and it’s not yet anywhere near the scheduled hour for luncheon on the
earth above.”

At that, there came a chorus of protests from the others, who had
listened patiently enough hitherto:

“Not time for luncheon!” Roy exclaimed, indignantly. “Man, you’re
crazy.”

“It’s well along in the night,” Saxe affirmed.

“Or, maybe, toward the morning of next day.” David spoke with the
emphasis of entire conviction. “We’ve been here close to twenty-four
hours, already.”

“Or even more,” Roy added, defiantly.

Billy Walker chuckled--a great volume of sound, which sent
multiplying echoes afar over the placid water that shut them off from
life.

“The exercise of reason convinces me that all of you are quite
wrong,” the sage remarked, very genially. “There are certain
well-known facts that compel me to believe you are wrong in your
estimate of the time already elapsed since your incarceration by the
flood. You are, perhaps, aware that in situations such as ours, the
human mind errs outrageously in its calculations of time. Persons
buried alive for a few hours invariably deem the time many days. One
lives through great suffering; he believes that the time of his agony
has been correspondingly great, though it may have been a matter of
seconds, rather than of hours. This involuntary exaggeration seems a
universal rule. We can’t reasonably believe that we are constituted
differently from other men. With the judgment clarified by reason,
based on knowledge of allied facts, I am compelled to believe--in
direct contradiction to my own feelings, as well as yours--that the
time elapsed since the lake broke in on us hasn’t been more than--”
Billy paused to reflect, running over the sequence of events, as the
basis of computation.

“Well, how long is it--measured by logic, and not by emotion?” Saxe
demanded, somewhat sulkily.

“And, after all,” Billy remarked musingly, “time is only one of the
categories of human thought, as Kant pointed out. To me, it seems
eons since I was in the great out-of-doors--free, free to live. I
judge by reasoning that we have been shut up here for nearly an
hour--not quite.”

Before Roy could voice the protest on his lips, a cry came from Saxe:

“Hark! Hark!”

The others held silent, marveling what this might mean. To their
ears came the gentle lapping of the waves against the walls of the
prison-house, the faint sighs of their own breathing--nothing else.
After a long time, Saxe spoke again; and his voice was lifeless,
where before it had been vibrant with feeling.

“I must be going mad,” he said, simply. “I thought that I
heard--someone--calling my name.”




CHAPTER XXV

TO THE CHIMNEY


As they were lingering over the breakfast table, that same morning,
Margaret turned to May with a smile.

“And to think of them, off adventuring now, this very minute!” she
exclaimed, pouting a little. “It was rather horrid of them to go at
such an unearthly hour, when of course we weren’t up.”

May nodded cheerfully.

“Yes, I’d have enjoyed being in at the finish--if only I’d been
invited.”

“And I, too,” Margaret declared. “Anyhow, it’s my affair in a way, so
I think I’m entitled to a spectator’s privilege, at least.”

“It must be horribly exciting for you, with so much money involved,”
May ventured, somewhat timidly.

Margaret received the suggestion without sign of offense, and
answered seriously:

“I don’t wish Mr. Temple to fail. I don’t really need the money.
Besides--” she broke off in confusion.

“And, besides, everything may come out right, after all, for
everybody concerned,” May said slily.

Margaret blushed to warmest rose, but she showed no displeasure at
the innuendo.

“Except the poor musicians,” she remarked; and then the two girls
laughed joyously. As a matter of fact, each of them understood
perfectly the progress of the other’s love-affair, but their intimacy
was too new for the most sacred confidences. Then, Margaret received
an inspiration:

“Why, we’ll go,” she exclaimed. Her expression showed surprised
triumph over the idea.

“Where?” May questioned, at a loss.

“To the island, of course,” came the brisk answer. “I’ll run and tell
mother, and then we’ll paddle up there, and see everything that’s to
be seen.”

“Splendid!” May cried with enthusiasm. She was interested in the
outcome of the treasure-hunt, but at this moment her sole thought was
a thrilling one to the effect that by the plan she would see Roy the
sooner.

So, it came about that in mid-afternoon the two girls beached the
canoe on the strip of sand at the island, and started toward the
cavern. They were a little puzzled by the absence of the launch, and
wondered if the fact were significant of good or ill fortune for the
searchers. As they came to the top of the low bluff that rose from
the shore, Margaret paused, and turned to look out over the lake.

“No, the launch isn’t in sight anywhere,” she said.

As she would have faced about to go on, a faint muffled sound came
to her ears; the ground trembled very slightly; a movement of the
lake’s surface caught her glance. A moment before, the tiny waves,
glistening prisms under the sunlight, had made a scene of quiet
beauty. Now, in the twinkling of an eye, there had come a change--a
change curious, inexplicable, sinister. Out there in the lake, only
a little way from the shore, the water, which had been so placid
when they skimmed over it hardly a minute before, was now writhing
in a horrible convulsion. Yet, no unwarned tempest racked the lake.
The warm air was floating as languidly as hitherto. Nothing had been
hurled into the water. There had been no crash of fallen meteor.
Naught showed as the cause of this amazing contrast. Nevertheless,
under her eyes, the erstwhile tranquil bosom of the lake heaved in
rage. Fifty yards from the shore, the water raced, lashing itself
in wrath about the sunken center of its vortex. Margaret, thrilled,
astounded, terrified, caught May by the arm, pulled her about.

“See! See!” she cried, wildly. “What is it? What can it mean?”

May, too, was stupefied by the spectacle. She stared at it in
wordless confusion. She could make no guess as to the cause of this
extraordinary event, nor tried to. She merely watched the mad carouse
of the flood, and stood aghast. A great fear of this uncanny thing
fell on the two girls, so that they clung together for protection,
shuddering, their faces pallid.

It seemed to the watchers as if that mysterious turmoil in the waters
of the lake continued for hours, though, as Billy Walker might have
explained to them, it was doubtless no more than a matter of minutes.
The commotion spread over a broad area, but the girls had eyes only
for the central place of the movement, the maelstrom near the
shore, where the waters whirled in funnel shape, with the swaying
hollow pointing the downward rush. An engineer would have known at
first glance the reason for this churning of the lake, would have
understood that some sudden vent below had set the tide racing to
new liberty. But the girls had no such learning in physics. They
could only look on in fascinated wonder, in awe. Haphazard, fantastic
ideas darted in their brains, vague guesses concerning sea-serpents,
earthquakes, tidal waves, waterspouts, which their own native sense
rejected. Throughout the experience, neither was able to contrive any
explanation of the extraordinary event. They were as confounded at
the end as at the beginning.

Little by little, the waters of the lake ran slowly, and more slowly,
in the path set them by the whorl. At last, there was scarcely a
ripple to mark the spot where the cauldron had seethed hottest. Once
again, there was nothing to see save the light tossing of the waves,
dancing to the rhythm of the breeze toward the kisses of the sun.
Margaret and May set their faces once more toward the cavern.

They were garrulous over the mystery--hardly concerned with the
treasure-quest, for the moment. But the new interest had not lessened
the desire of their hearts, and they quickened their steps, each
at thought of the man she loved, now so near at hand. So they came
soon to the cliff in the ravine, where was the entrance to the cave.
Margaret had brought her torch, which Jake had recharged for her the
night before from his own supplies. She pressed the button, pushed
aside the concealing branches, and made her way within the opening,
followed closely by May, who experienced a pleasurable excitement as
she thus penetrated into the earth. The two came duly to the chamber,
which they crossed to where the black openings into the tunnels
showed. Now, May’s heart beat faster, as she found herself deep in
this grim abode of darkness, where the limited radiance of the torch
served but to make more grotesquely menacing the shadowy unknown on
every side. Yet, she would not confess the fear that clutched at
her--only, held fast to Margaret’s arm, and chatted with unusual
volubility, while a little quaver crept in her voice. They entered
the passage on the right, which Margaret had traversed with Saxe, and
went forward with what speed they might over the rocks that cumbered
the floor. They had descended for some distance, but had not yet
reached the rift that led across into the other tunnel, when Margaret
halted abruptly, with a gasp of amazement.

“It’s--it’s water!” she cried, dumfounded. She stood staring with
dilated eyes, her lips parted, stupefied with astonishment, pointing
with her free hand to the space before her, where the glow of the
torch shone on a softly rippling level of water, which filled the
tunnel like the contents of a well seen down the slope.

May, who had held her eyes fixed on the floor to save herself
from stumbling, looked forward at the exclamation, and perceived
the water. But the sight was not especially impressive to her.
She supposed that here was merely a well in the path. She did not
understand her friend’s dismay.

“What is it?” she asked, with no great interest. She wondered in
which direction they would turn to pass by the pool.

Margaret, however, was thinking with desperate energy. Her mind was
naturally keen, and it had enjoyed advantages of careful training.
She began, at last, to suspect something as to the true significance
of the catastrophe in the lake, which hitherto had baffled
comprehension. The presence of water in the cavern, where before had
been no water, stunned her at first; then, as she apprehended vaguely
the meaning of it, it appalled. There where the tunnel was steep,
the water filled it completely. She went forward until the water was
at her very feet, and stared down at it, her face colorless, her
pulse bounding wildly, in the grip of cold horror. Finally, she began
stammering affrightedly:

“The lake--the water out there--it’s broken into the cavern--they’re
drowned--drowned--Saxe!” Her voice rose to a wail on the last word.

Margaret’s terror, rather than her words, had filled the other girl
with dismay at the first. But “drowned” gave form to fear. May, in
turn, was stricken with horror.

“Drowned?” she repeated, in a whisper. “Roy?” Her memory went back
to the scene she had just witnessed on the lake. The utterance of
Margaret, broken, uncomprehended, became hideously plain. It meant
that the lake had somehow entered this cavern, which ran beneath the
waters. In that case, the men down within the earth there must have
been overwhelmed by the in-pouring flood. But, even as conviction
came, her spirit refused credence to the truth. She cried aloud in
revolt:

“No, no! No, I tell you! They are safe--safe!”

Margaret gave no heed to the folly of the words--the confidence in
them spurred her to endeavor.

“Come!” she exclaimed. She whirled, and ran swiftly over the rubble,
back the way they had come. Her thoughts were chaotic, but through
them ran refusal to believe the worst. He--they--Saxe must have
received warning--must be safe, somewhere, somehow--must be--must be!
May, hard on Margaret’s heels, was sore pressed to keep the pace over
the jumble of fragments.

When they had come to the great chamber, Margaret, without pause,
turned into the passage on the left. With the same speed, she
hurried along this, panting now. May ran just behind. Then, finally,
the horror, against which Margaret had hoped, burst full on her. She
halted, reeling, a shriek of despair wavering on her palsied lips. A
few feet away, down the tunnel’s slope, lay the level black of water,
shining gently under the beams of the torch, serene, implacable. May,
too, saw and understood, and rested frozen in dumb anguish over this
ending of all things.

There are certain calamities so unexpected, so monstrous, that the
mind refuses to accept them as fact at first announcement, no matter
what the proof. It was so here. The two girls--freshly stirring to
the most subtle and the most potent of human emotions, love, come
forth in the morning with gladness of heart to meet the men of their
choice, gaily eager to learn of an adventure--were now, in a flash,
confronted with an inconceivable disaster. They would not accept
the fact--they could not. There was, there must be, some hideous
mistake, soon to be cleared away. Despite all evidence, those they
loved had not been done to death, down there within the abysses of
the earth. Somewhere, somehow, they had escaped. They would come
forth presently, and then there would be only laughter, where now was
terror.

It was this refusal to believe that gave Margaret inspiration to
action at last. Of a sudden, she bethought herself of that other
entrance to the cavern, concerning which she had spoken to Saxe.
On the instant, she again turned, and fled back through the tunnel
without a word. May, not understanding, yet still defiant of fate,
followed. The time was marvelously short until they were again in the
ravine outside the cavern. But Margaret did not pause here--she did
not even trouble to cut off the current of her torch, of which the
glow showed wanly against the sunlight, as she went running swiftly
through the ravine, and out on the little plateau that lay at its
mouth. There, she hesitated, but only for a second, her eyes sweeping
the undulations of the island while memory struggled for assurance.
Certainty flashed on her, and again she leaped forward, May always
close beside in the flight. Across the plateau Margaret sped, into
a gully that ran toward the shore, up a stiff slope to the crest
of a ridge, which was part of the bluff overlooking the lake. The
summit was boulder-strewn, a medley of masses lying topsy-turvy. She
threaded a way among the rocks, perforce more slowly, yet still with
feverish haste. At last, she halted, with a great cry of joy.

“It is here!” she said softly. There was a note of reverent
thankfulness in her voice.

May looked, wondering, and saw a small hole amid the rocks at
her feet. It was less than a yard in length, and in breadth much
narrower. She perceived that it was not quite vertical, though
almost. A short way below the surface, its course was hidden in
blackness.

Margaret wasted not a moment.

“They’re in there, I know,” she explained, succinctly, to May. “I’m
going to show them the way out.”

As a matter of fact, the girl knew nothing as to the fact she stated
so authoritatively. She had no least idea as to that part of the
cavern on which the chimney gave. Her cousin had pointed it out, and
had told her that by it he first made his way within. Beyond that,
she knew nothing whatever. Hope dictated her claim to knowledge.
She still denied any credence to the final catastrophe. Here, now,
lay the sole avenue of escape. So she announced it with positiveness
that admitted no question. Thus only might courage be held. May, for
her part, eager to believe, received the declaration without doubt.
Moreover, Roy had discoursed to her at length concerning the curious
operations of the sixth sense. With that receptivity characteristic
of the fond woman, she had accepted his pronouncements without
hesitation, glad to believe whatsoever he believed. Besides, she had
great faith in feminine intuition--and what was intuition, if not
that self-same psychic thing over which her lover rhapsodized? Now,
instinct cried that the man she loved was safe, and she believed.

“Shall I go, too?” she asked.

Margaret shook her head. She turned to scan the lake.

“No,” she said; “you couldn’t help--and it may be bad climbing. But
I’m used to that. You keep watch for Jake and the launch. He may be
needed later on.” With that as the last word, she let herself down
into the chimney of the rocks. May from above gazed with wide eyes
until the form of her friend disappeared into the blackness below.
Then, she turned to look out over the lake, in anxious search for the
coming of the launch. Standing alone there, with the dreadful mystery
hidden within the earth under her feet, she felt a quick reaction of
doubt, which welled swiftly to the torture of despair. The strength
flowed from her. She sank to her knees, and stared down into the
dark of the chasm with dull, unseeing eyes--rested motionless in the
apathy of supreme misery.




CHAPTER XXVI

IN THE DARK


Margaret, as she let herself down into the chimney, held the torch
so as to show her surroundings. She still clung to the rock above
with her right hand, while the left was occupied by the torch. As
yet, she had found no footing. The light revealed that this opening
through the ridge was the result of the lodging of one huge block
of stone, which had left the angle between it and the other rock
empty. A clutter of fragments formed the third side of a triangle,
which extended downward steeply as far as she could see. A feeling
of sick apprehension swept over her when she perceived the manner in
which some of the stones hung, seemingly poised to a fall. Then, in
the next instant, she recalled the reason of her presence there, and
conquered dread in the need of action.

She saw a jutting bit of rock a few inches below her feet. She let
herself down to the extreme limit of reach, and found herself just
able to touch the support with a toe. She released her hand-hold,
and thus remained, half-standing, half-lying in the hole. She
searched out other points to which her fingers might cling, at the
height of her breast. Clenching these, she bent her knees, and
finally came to a crouching posture on the tiny ledge that had been
under her feet. In the like tedious, slow fashion, she continued
the descent, for a distance of perhaps twenty feet, without mishap,
though in constant danger of a fall. But, at this point, new
difficulties threatened. Though she took long to search, she could
find nothing to afford a foothold, even the tiniest. To make the
matter worse, just here the smoothness of the walls was such that her
hands could secure only a doubtful grip. She studied the situation
painstakingly by means of the torch, making sure that nowhere a
projection of the stone escaped her observation. She was distraught
by this ill fortune, which threatened the ruin of her hopes. Finally,
however, she perceived by the light of the torch that, two yards or
more below the point to which her feet reached, the chimney bent
a little, toward the horizontal. At the sight, Margaret’s courage
sprang to new life. Without a second of delay in which fear might
grow, she loosed her hold, and let herself slip downward.

The steepness of the chimney was so great that her movement was
rather a fall than a slide. In the very second of the start, she
felt the violent impact of her feet against the stone as they struck
the bend. Nor was the change of direction sufficient to overcome the
impetus of the drop, as she had hoped. Her body shot onward down the
rough slope. She caught at the walls with her fingers, but, though
the ragged surface tore the skin from her flesh, she could get no
clutch strong enough to stay the flight. The torch had slipped from
her grasp without her even being aware of its loss at the time. In
the darkness, she went hurtling on. Her spirit broke in those seconds
of dreadfulness. She felt that death waited at the end of the fall.
Saxe’s name was on her lips when she crashed into pause.

For a long time she lay without any movement, her sole consciousness
a dazed suffering from bruised flesh and aching bones. Her senses all
but failed, yet did not quite. A vague, incoherent necessity beat
upon her brain, though she could by no means understand what that
need might be. Her one clear realization was of pain--pain pervasive,
deadly. But, little by little, the torment of racked nerves lessened.
It seemed to her ages after that hideous drop through the black
when, at last, her mind grew active again. On the instant, she was a
creature transformed. She contrived with infinite pains to sit erect,
alert to know the truth as to her own condition--for she still had
work to do. To her relief, she found that, despite the complaining
of her beaten body, she had been spared broken bones or other hurt
that might disable. There was misery in each movement, but she could
move, and with that she was content, grateful to providence that her
plight was no worse. She looked back, and saw, a long way off, a
feeble, pallid light, which came, she made certain, from the foot of
the shaft at the bend. Now, from its remoteness, she was able to make
some estimate of the distance through which she had sped beyond it,
and she was fain to wonder that she should be indeed alive.

It was easy to determine that she was lying on a shelf of rock,
which was almost level. She felt about this, and even ventured to
crawl a short way. Then, her groping hand struck on emptiness, and,
shuddering, she drew back from the invisible void. Nevertheless,
weakness gave ground to desire. She must press onward, somehow, to
the rescue. At once, she began creeping forward, bearing to the
right, on which side she felt the sheer wall of a cliff. She judged
that, by proceeding thus, she would be safe from the gulf as far
as the ledge might run. She had gone perhaps twenty yards in this
tortoise manner, when a sudden thought halted her in anger against
the folly of having neglected the simplest expedient. Saxe--the
others--might be about anywhere, and she had not called to them!
Forthwith, she gathered her strength--such as was left to her--and
sent out a cry, a pitiful, passionate cry.

“Saxe! Saxe!”

She listened in breathless suspense ... there came no answer.

Then, after a time, she called again; and again there came no answer,
yet she refused to lose hold on faith. She sought comfort in the
thought that she was still too far from him for her voice to carry.
So, she set forward anew on hands and knees, her fingers groping
over the rock on which she crawled, to make sure that the way was
safe for her passing. Physical suffering rent her, but an indomitable
spirit spurred the jaded body. By sheer strength of will, she
persisted in that pitiful progress through minute after minute, until
at last she deemed the distance traversed enough to warrant a second
calling into the dark:

“Saxe! Saxe!” sounded the repetition of her summons. Followed an
instant of profoundest silence, as the last echoes of the shrill cry
died.

Then, of a sudden, the air was shattered with clamors. A din of
shouts roared in her ears, multiplied by the reverberations of the
cavern, chaotic, deafening. Out of all the cacophony, her strained
sense caught a tone that thrilled the heart to rapture. Her voice
rose in a scream--hysterical, triumphant--in answer.

“Saxe! Saxe!” And then a weary murmur: “Oh, thank God!”

A little silence fell. It was broken by her own name, spoken in his
voice.

“Margaret!”

“Yes, Saxe,” she answered, simply. It was evident that the distance
between them was not very great. She wondered that her calling should
have remained unheard in the earlier effort. It occurred to her that
perhaps in the first attempt she had not really cried out with all
her might--as was, indeed, the case.

“You--you, Margaret--you came for us!”

“Yes.” There was no need to explain that she had come for him, for
him alone. Oh, she would be very glad that the others should win to
life--but she had come for him, for him only. “You are safe?” she
added.

“Yes.” The others were silent, giving the dialogue to the girl and
Saxe, for they understood how it was between the two. “You came by
the other entrance, of which you told me?”

“Yes--through the chimney, on the ridge by the shore. May is there,
watching and waiting for Jake to come. We shall need help to get out.
It is hard to climb. I slipped coming down.”

“You are hurt!” The lover’s voice was harsh with fear.

But Margaret laughed blithely. What matter a few bruises now?

“It shook me up a bit,” she confessed. “But I’m all right. The worst
of it was that I lost my torch. Can you come to me here? I know how
to find the way back in the dark.”

Billy Walker deemed it time that he should assume direction of the
affair.

“Do you know how high above the water you are there, Miss West?” he
demanded. The gruff voice was very gentle, for gratitude to this girl
burned hot in him, as in the others. She had brought the gift of life
to dead men.

“No,” Margaret answered.

“You are on a ledge, of course,” the sage continued. “Please get to
the edge of it, and reach down with your hand, and find if you can
touch the water.”

There was a little delay before the reply came.

“Yes.”

“Be careful!” The sharp admonition was from Saxe.

“It’s almost level with the shelf I’m on,” the girl continued.

“Good!” Billy’s tone was full of satisfaction. “That makes it very
simple. We shall swim across to you, and then you will guide us from
these Plutonian shades back to the upper world.” He turned toward
the companions whom he could not see, and addressed them with crisp
authority. “You will go first, Saxe. Her voice will guide you--she’s
directly across the chamber from us. Be ready afterward to help
us with David when we get there. We shall allow you ample time
to--er--climb out before we start to tote Dave. Go ahead.”

“I’m off,” Saxe answered, promptly. Then, he called to Margaret,
“Talk a bit, please, while I’m in the water, so that I’ll know the
direction. I’m just starting.”

There was a slight splash as Saxe lowered his body into the water,
and the soft swish from his strokes as he swam away.

“Here, Saxe! Here I am! This way!” The girl continued the calls with
joy in her tones. Then, a minute later, she heard him speak her name
softly, at her feet. In another instant, he was beside her on the
ledge--she was in his arms, their lips met. He had no thought of his
dripping garments, nor had she. They had no knowledge of anything
save heaven.

Billy Walker’s voice went thundering across the cavern:

“Are you there, Saxe?”

There was no reply. The sage chuckled aloud.

“The exercise of reason teaches me,” he explained in a voluminous
whisper, “that our dear young friend is not drowned--oh, no! As a
matter of fact, at this moment, he has already got clear of the
water, and doesn’t know where he is, but is happier than he ever was
before in his life. When he awakes from the trance, he will address
us.”

So, in truth, it came to pass. Presently, the call came from
Saxe, and the progress of the three across the cavern was safely
accomplished. Arrived, they pressed about the girl, who was standing,
supported by her lover’s arm, and mightily embarrassed by the fervor
of their gratitude for the boon of life bestowed on them by her
intrepidity and resource. Finally, the five set forth along the
ledge, following it as Margaret had come, by groping on the sheer
wall from which it jutted. And, now, the girl no longer went with
painful slowness on hands and knees, but walked bravely, upheld by
the lover at her side. So, at last, they came to the spot where
Margaret’s fall had ended. To their left, seemingly a great way off,
and high above them, showed the pallid gleam from the bend of the
chimney--blessed harbinger of God’s light above.

Billy Walker surveyed the dim vista of ascent with extreme disfavor.

“Jake must bring ladders,” he declared. “Luckily, he’s to fetch along
help--a whole crew for the rescue work. Oh, yes, I’ll wait--I don’t
mind waiting. The water was warm, and the cavern’s warm, and, anyhow,
wet clothes don’t bother--if one doesn’t think of them. But I wish I
had a dry cigar and a match.”

Roy thrust himself forward resolutely.

“Nonsense!” he exclaimed. “I’ll climb up in a jiffy.” He had pulled
off his shoes before starting for the first swim with David across
the chamber, and now stood up in his stockinged feet. “I’m fond of
cliff-climbing. The only trouble with this is, it’ll prove too easy.”
Without more ado, he scrambled upward through the darkness. The
others waited anxiously, and breathed a sigh of relief when they saw
his form at last silhouetted against the pale light at the bend. His
voice came to them muffled.

“The rest will be quicker, I can see, now.” Forthwith, he vanished.

It was May on the solid earth above who heard him, and the happiness
of it made her almost fainting. But she held herself sternly, and
even managed a quavering call of his name--for which, when he heard,
Roy climbed the faster, and soon these two were in each other’s
arms, glad beyond measure of gladness. The girl was in terror over
the blood-stained bandage about her lover’s head, and cried when
she learned of the treacherous shot that had wounded him. She cried
again, with content, that it had been no worse. Most of all, she
cried for the exquisite bliss of his being alive and holding her in
his arms--ruining the daintiest of summer frocks with his sodden,
rock-stained clothes.

The strangeness of the spectacle thus presented by the ardent pair
arrested the attention of Jake and his crew, who chanced just then to
arrive in the launch. So great became the boatman’s curiosity that he
resolved to investigate before marching his company into the cavern.
To this fact, and not to any alertness on the part of the lovers
in looking out for the coming of the launch, was due the quickness
with which measures of relief were undertaken for those left in the
depths. Ropes were hurried to the scene; a lantern was lowered. It
was then discovered that the descent was not so very difficult. With
the way lighted, and a rope by which to cling, the various members
of the party contrived to climb safely to the mouth of the chimney.
Margaret went first, with Saxe behind to aid as best he might. David
Thwing was next, and last of all, by his own choice, Billy Walker.

“If I go last,” he explained to David, “I’m saved the discomfort of
feeling that I ought to be hurrying to get out of somebody’s way.”

After the rescue had been effected, a watch made up from men trusted
by the boatman was set over the chimney, at Roy’s suggestion. Then,
the four young men, with the two girls, entered the launch to be
taken to the cottage, for a change of clothing and luncheon. Billy
chuckled contentedly, while the other men appeared sheepish, when it
was learned that noon remained still an hour distant.

“But the chances are poor of ever getting that gold, after all,” Saxe
said ruefully, when they were under weigh.

Roy uttered an indignant exclamation.

“Nothing of the sort!” he declared. “David and I had the tackle
fastened, all right, with a knot on the rope to save it from slipping
through the block. And we had it hauled tight, too.” He laughed
amusedly. “Why, do you know? That treasure-chest has started up the
slope already! I’ll bet what you like the shrinking of the rope has
brought it out of the pit. A good gang of men can get that chest out
in less than a half-day.” He spoke with the sureness of one having
knowledge drawn from experience. That he was right the issue proved,
for the gold was taken out very easily, and stored safely in the bank
before nightfall.

       *       *       *       *       *

That evening in the music-room, Saxe sat playing the miser’s song of
gold. Still drumming the harsh phrases, he turned, and spoke to his
friends with a whimsical smile.

“You know, I rather apologized to you for asking your help in this
affair, because it didn’t offer anything much in the way of real
adventure, but it did turn out a bit lively after all!”

Came a chorus of laughing assents.

“We owe Masters gratitude for some thrills,” David said cheerfully.
“And anyhow, he’s got his deserts.”

Roy was on the point of saying something candid anent the dead
engineer. But his eyes met those of May Thurston, and he forgot hate,
and remembered only love.

Saxe spoke again presently, with a meditative air, though Margaret
thought that she could detect a twinkle deep in the gray eyes.

“Roy was right in his idea about the solution of the mystery coming
by psychic impression. It did. The curious part is that the one to
receive the subtle suggestion from the world beyond was the last
person to be suspected of anything of the kind--a kind so contrary to
pure reason.”

“What’s that?” Billy Walker demanded.

“Why, about the cipher,” Saxe explained, placidly. “Billy, tell us
the truth. Search your memory well. Didn’t you first have the idea
that the music had something to do with the hiding-place of the gold,
and then didn’t you dig out the reasons to justify that idea--after
you had it?”

“Of all the preposterous--” the sage began stormily.

But Saxe interrupted ruthlessly:

“Carefully! Search your memory, Billy. Didn’t the idea come first,
the reasons afterward? Aren’t you psychically sensitive, Billy
Walker? Confess!”

“Psychic--I!” the seer boomed, outraged. Then, his brow became
furrowed with thought. His expression changed to one of dismay.
Little by little, this wore away, a dawning satisfaction grew in
its stead. Finally, he spoke aloud to himself, unconsciously.
“Psychic--I? Well, well!” And Billy Walker smiled.

Saxe smiled in answer to the smile that was in Margaret’s eyes as her
glance met his. Then he turned once again to the piano. The rhythm of
the miser’s song of gold rang out. But now, the player touched the
harsh measures with a certain grateful gentleness. In and over and
about the grim chords, he wove daintier harmonies, lingered often for
cadences of passion, wrought a counterpoint of basic love, set above
all an exquisite melody, the unison of two hearts. The improvisation
welled to a chorale of magnificent praise for that lonely and
unhappy man to whose morbid intrigue the player owed not merely a
fortune, but something infinitely more--the meeting and the winning
of the woman he loved.

“It’s the only tune I ever cared for,” quoth Billy Walker,
complacently.




      *      *      *      *      *      *




Transcriber’s note:

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.