“This is, truly, a surprise!” Miss Cavendish exclaimed. “Who would ever have thought of meeting you two in this out-of-the-way place.”

“Here, too!” replied Macloud.

“When did you return, Geoffrey?” she inquired.

“From abroad?—I haven’t gone,” said Croyden. “The business still holds me.”

She looked at him steadily a moment—Macloud was talking to Miss Brundage.

“How much longer will it hold you?” she asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know—it’s difficult of adjustment.—What brings you here, may I inquire?”

“We were in Washington and came over with the Westons to the Officers’ Hop to-night—given for the Secretary of something. He’s one of the Cabinet. We return in the morning.”

“Oh, I see,” he answered; the relief in his voice would have missed a less acute ear. “Where are you going now?”

“To a tea at the Superintendent’s, when the Westons join us. Come along!”

“I haven’t acquired the Washington habit,—yet!” he laughed. “A man at a tea fight! Oh, no!” 121

“Then go to the dance with us—Colin! you’ll go, won’t you?”

“Sure!” said Macloud. “I’ll follow your voice any place. Where shall it be?”

“To the Hop, to-night.”

“We’re not invited—if that cuts any figure.”

“You’ll go in our party. Ah! Mrs. Weston, I’ve presumed to ask Mr. Macloud and Mr. Croyden to join our party to-night.”

“The Admiral and I shall be delighted to have them,” Mrs. Weston answered—“Will they also go with us to the tea? No? Well, then, to-night.”

Macloud and Croyden accompanied them to the Academy gates, and then returned to the hotel.

In the narrow passage between the news-desk and the office, they bumped, inadvertently, into two men. There were mutual excuses, and the men went on.

An hour or so later, Macloud, having changed into his evening clothes, came into Croyden’s room and found him down on his knees looking under the bureau, and swearing vigorously.

“Whee!” he said; “you are a true pirate’s heir! Old Parmenter, himself, couldn’t do it better. What’s the matter—lose something?”

“No, I didn’t lose anything!” said Croyden sarcastically. “I’m saying my prayers.”

“And incidentally searching for this, I suppose?” picking up a pearl stud from under the bed. 122

Croyden took it without a word.

“And when you’ve sufficiently recovered your equanimity,” Macloud went on, “you might let me see the aforesaid Parmenter’s letter. I want to cogitate over it.”

“It’s in my wallet!” grinding in the stud—“my coat’s on the chair, yonder.”

“I don’t find it!” said Macloud, searching. “What pocket is it in?”

“The inside breast pocket!” exclaimed Croyden, ramming the last stud home. “Where would you think it is—in the small change pocket?”

“Then suppose you find it for me.”

“I’ll do it with——” He stopped. “Do you mean it isn’t there?” he exclaimed.

“It isn’t there!” said Macloud, holding up the coat.

Croyden’s fingers flew to the breast pocket—empty! to the other pockets—no wallet! He seized his trousers; then his waistcoat—no wallet.

“My God! I’ve lost it!” he cried.

“Maybe you left it in Hampton?” said Macloud.

Croyden shook his head. “I had it when we left the Weston party—I felt it in my pocket, as I bent to tie Miss Cavendish’s shoe.”

“Then, it oughtn’t to be difficult to find—it’s lost between the Sampson Gate and the hotel. I’m going out to search, possibly in the fading light it has not been noticed. You telephone the office—and 123 then join me, as quickly as you can get into your clothes.”

He dashed out and down the stairs into the Exchange, passing midway, with the barest nod, the Weston party, nor pausing to answer the question Miss Cavendish flung after him.

Once on the rear piazza, however, he went slowly down the broad white steps to the broad brick walk—the electric lights were on, and he noted, with keen regret, how bright they made it—and thence to the Sampson Gate. It was vain! He inquired of the guard stationed there, and that, too, proving unavailing, left directions for its return, if found.

“What a misfortune!” he muttered, as he renewed the search. “What a misfortune! If any one reads that letter, the jig is up for us.... Here! boys,” to a crowd of noisy urchins, sitting on the coping along the street, “do you want to make a dollar?”

The enthusiasm of the response, not to mention its unanimity, threatened dire disaster to Macloud’s toilet.

“Hold on!” he said. “Don’t pull me apart. You all can have a chance for it. I’ve lost a wallet—a pocketbook—between the gate yonder and the hotel. A dollar to the boy who finds it.”

With a shout, they set to work. A moment later Croyden came down the walk.

“I haven’t got it,” Macloud said, answering his 124 look. “I’ve been over to the gate and back, and now I’ve put these gamins to work. They will find it, if it’s to be found. Did you telephone the office?”

“Nothing doing there!” Croyden answered. “And what’s more, there won’t be anything doing here—we shall never find the letter, Macloud.”

“That’s my fear,” Macloud admitted. “Somebody’s already found it.”

“Somebody’s stolen it,” Croyden answered.

“What?”

“Precisely!—do you recall our being jostled by two men in the narrow corridor of the hotel? Well, then is when I lost my wallet. I am sure of it. I wasn’t in a position to drop it from my pocket.”

Macloud’s hand sought his own breast pocket and stopped.

“I forgot to change, when I dressed. Maybe the other fellow made off with mine. I’ll go and investigate—you keep an eye on the boys.”

Presently he returned.

“You’re right!” he said. “Mine is missing, too. We’ll call off the boys.”

He flung them some small coins, thereby precipitating a scramble and a fight, and they went slowly in.

“There is just one chance,” he continued. “Pickpockets usually abstract the money, instantly, and throw the book and papers away. 125 They want no tell-tale evidence. It may be the case here—they, likely, didn’t examine the letter, just saw it was a letter and went no further.”

“That won’t help us much,” said Croyden. “It will be found—it’s only a question of the pickpockets or some one else.”

“But the some one else may be honest. Your card is in the wallet?”

“With Hampton on it.”

“The finder may advertise—may look you up at the hotel—may——”

“May bring it back on a gold salver!” Croyden interjected. “No! No! Colin. Our only hope is that the thief threw away the letter, and that no one finds it until after we have the treasure. The man isn’t born who, under the circumstances, will renounce the opportunity for a half million dollars.”

“Well, at the worst, we have an even chance! Thank Heaven! We know the directions without the letter. Don’t be discouraged, old man—we’ll win out, yet.”

“I’m not discouraged!” laughed Croyden. “I have never anticipated success. It was sport—an adventure and a problem to work out, nothing more. Now, if we have some one else to combat, so much greater the adventure, and more intricate the problem.”

“Shall we notify the police?” Macloud asked. “Or isn’t it well to get them into it?” 126

“I’ll confess I don’t know. If we could jug the thieves quickly, and recover the plunder, it might be well. On the other hand, they might disclose the letter to the police or to some pal, or try even to treat with us, on the threat of publicity. On the whole, I’m inclined to secrecy—and, if the thieves show up on the Point, to have it out with them. There are only two, so we shall not be overmatched. Moreover, we can be sure they will keep it strictly to themselves, if we don’t force their hands by trying to arrest them.”

Macloud considered a moment. “I incline to your opinion. We will simply advertise for the wallets to-morrow, as a bluff—and go to work in earnest to find the treasure.”

They had entered the hotel again; in the Exchange, the rocking chair brigade and the knocker’s club were gathered.

“The usual thing!” Croyden remarked. “Why can’t a hotel ever be free of them?”

“Because it’s a hotel!” laughed Macloud. “Let’s go in to dinner—I’m hungry.”

The tall head-waiter received them like a host himself, and conducted them down the room to a small table. A moment later, the Weston party came in, with Montecute Mattison in tow, and were shown to one nearby, with Harvey’s most impressive manner.

An Admiral is some pumpkins in Annapolis, when he is on the active list. 127

Mrs. Weston and the young ladies looked over and nodded; Croyden and Macloud arose and bowed. They saw Miss Cavendish lean toward the Admiral and say a word. He glanced across.

“We would be glad to have you join us,” said he, with a man’s fine indifference to the fact that their table was, already, scarcely large enough for five.

“I am afraid we should crowd you, sir. Thank you!—we’ll join you later, if we may,” replied Macloud.

A little time after, they heard Mattison’s irritating voice, pitched loud enough to reach them:

“I wonder what Croyden’s doing here with Macloud?” he remarked. “I thought you said, Elaine, that he had skipped for foreign parts, after the Royster smash, last September.”

“I did say, Mr. Mattison, I thought he had gone abroad, but I most assuredly did not say, nor infer, that he had skipped, nor connect his going with Royster’s failure!” Miss Cavendish responded. “If you must say unjust and unkind things, don’t make other people responsible for them, please. Shoulder them yourself.”

“Good girl!” muttered Macloud. “Hand him another!” Then he shot a look at his friend.

“I don’t mind,” said Croyden. “They may think what they please—and Mattison’s venom is sprinkled so indiscriminately it doesn’t hurt. Everyone comes in for a dose.” 128

They dallied through dinner, and finished at the same time as the Westons. Croyden walked out with Miss Cavendish.

“I couldn’t help overhearing that remark of Mattison’s—the beggar intended that I should,” said he—“and I want to thank you, Elaine, for your ‘come back’ at him.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t come back harder,” said she.

“And if you prefer me not to go with you to the Hop to-night don’t hesitate to say so—I’ll understand, perfectly. The Westons may have got a wrong impression——”

“The Westons haven’t ridden in the same motor, from Washington to Annapolis, with Montecute for nothing; but I’ll set you straight, never fear. We are going over in the car—there is room for you both, and Mrs. Weston expects you. We will be down at nine. It’s the fashion to go early, here, it seems.”

Zimmerman was swinging his red-coated military band through a dreamy, sensuous waltz, as they entered the gymnasium, where the Hops, at the Naval Academy, are held. The bareness of the huge room was gone entirely—concealed by flags and bunting, which hung in brilliant festoons from the galleries and the roof. Myriads of variegated lights flashed back the glitter of epaulet and the gleam of white shoulders, with, here and there, the black of the civilian looking 129 strangely incongruous amid the throng that danced itself into a very kaleidoscope of color.

The Secretary was a very ordinary man, who had a place in the Cabinet as a reward for political deeds done, and to be done. He represented a State machine, nothing more. Quality, temperament, fitness, poise had nothing to do with his selection. His wife was his equivalent, though, superficially, she appeared to better advantage, thanks to a Parisian modiste with exquisite taste, and her fond husband’s bottomless bank account.

Having passed the receiving line, the Westons held a small reception of their own. The Admiral was still upon the active list, with four years of service ahead of him. He was to be the next Aide on Personnel, the knowing ones said, and the orders were being looked for every day. Therefore he was decidedly a personage to tie to—more important even than the Secretary, himself, who was a mere figurehead in the Department. And the officers—and their wives, too, if they were married—crowded around the Westons, fairly walking over one another in their efforts to be noticed.

“What’s the meaning of it?” Croyden asked Miss Cavendish as they joined the dancing throng. “Are the Westons so amazingly popular?”

“Not at all! they’re hailing the rising sun,” she said—and explained: “They would do the same if he were a mummy or had small-pox. ‘Grease,’ they call it.” 130

(The watchword, in the Navy, is “grease.” From the moment you enter the Academy, as a plebe, until you have joined the lost souls on the retired list, you are diligently engaged in greasing every one who ranks you and in being greased by every one whom you rank. And the more assiduous and adroit you are at the greasing business, the more pleasant the life you lead. The man who ranks you can, when placed over you, make life a burden or a pleasure as his fancy and his disposition dictate. Consequently the “grease,” and the higher the rank the greater the “grease,” and the number of “greasers.”)

“Well-named!—dirty, smeary, contaminating business,” said Croyden. “And the best ‘greasers’ have the best places, I reckon. I prefer the unadorned garb of the civilian—and independence. I’ll permit those fellows to fight the battles and draw the rewards—they can do both very well.”

He did not get another dance with her until well toward the end—and would not then, if the lieutenant to whom it belonged had not been a second late—late enough to lose her.

“We are going back to Washington, in the morning,” she said. “Can’t you come along?”

“Impossible!” he answered. “Much as I’d like to do it.”

She looked up at him, quickly.

“Are you sure you would like to do it?” she asked. 131

“What a question!” he exclaimed.

“Geoffrey!—what is this business which keeps you here—in the East?”

“Business!” he replied, smiling.

“Which means, I must not ask, I suppose.”

He did not answer.

“Will you tell me one thing—just one?” she persisted. “Has Royster & Axtell’s failure anything to do with it?”

“Yes—it has!” he said, after a moment’s hesitation.

“And is it true that you are seriously embarrassed—have lost most of your fortune?”

“It was to be just one question!” he smiled.

“I’m a woman,” she explained.

They danced half the length of the room before he replied. He would tell her. She, alone, deserved to know—and, if she cared, would understand.

“I have lost most of my fortune!” he admitted. “I am not, however, in the least embarrassed—I have no debts.”

“And is it ‘business,’ which keeps you?—will you ever come back to Northumberland?”

“Yes, it is business that keeps me—important business. Whether or not I shall return to Northumberland, depends on the outcome of that business.”

“Why did you leave without a word of farewell to your friends?” she persisted.

“Was that unusual?” said Croyden. “Has 132 any of my friends cared—sincerely cared? Has any one so much as inquired for me?”

She looked away.

“They thought you were called to Europe, suddenly,” she replied.

“For which thinking you were responsible, Elaine.”

“Why I?” she demanded.

“You were the only one I told.”

Her eyes sought his, then fell.

“It was because of the failure,” she said. “You were the largest creditor—you disappeared—there were queries and rumors—and I thought it best to tell. I hope I did no harm.”

“On the contrary,” he said, “I am very, very grateful to know that some one thought of me.”

The music stopped. It was just in time. Another moment, and he might have said what he knew was folly. Her body close to his, his arm around her, the splendor of her bared shoulders, the perfume of her hair, the glory of her face, were overcoming him, were intoxicating his senses, were drugging him into non-resistance. The spell was broken not an instant too soon. He shook himself—like a man rousing from dead sleep—and took her back to their party.

The next instant, as she was whirled away by another, she shot him an alluringly fascinating smile, of intimate camaraderie, of understanding, which well-nigh put him to sleep again. 133

“I would that I might get such a smile,” sighed Macloud.

“You go to the devil!” said Croyden. “She has the same smile for all her friends, so don’t be silly.”

“And don’t be blind!” Macloud laughed.

“Moreover, if it’s a different smile, the field is open. I’m scratched, you know.”

“Can a man be scratched after he has won?” asked Macloud.

“More silliness!” Croyden retorted, as he turned away to search for his partner.

When the Hop was over, they said good-night at the foot of the stairs, in the Exchange.

“We shall see you in the morning, of course—we leave about ten o’clock,” said Miss Cavendish.

“We shall be gone long before you are awake,” answered Croyden. And, when she looked at him inquiringly, he added: “It’s an appointment that may not be broken.”

“Well, till Northumberland, then!” Miss Brundage remarked.

But Elaine Cavendish’s only reply was a meaning nod and another fascinating smile. She wished him success.

As they entered their own rooms, a little later, Macloud, in the lead, switched on the lights—and stopped!

“Hello!—our wallets, by all that’s good!” he exclaimed. 134

“Hurrah!” cried Croyden, springing in, and stumbling over Macloud in his eagerness.

He seized his wallet!—A touch, and the story was told. No need to investigate—it was as empty as the day it came from the shop, save for a few visiting cards, and some trifling memoranda. The letter and the money were gone.

“Damn!” said Croyden.

Macloud laughed.

“You didn’t fancy you would find it?” he said.

“No, I didn’t, but damn! anyway—who wouldn’t?”

“Oh, you’re strictly orthodox!” Macloud laughed. “But the pity is that won’t help us. They’ve got old Parmenter’s letter—and our ready cash as well; but the cash does not count.”

“It counts with me,” said Croyden. “I’m out something over a hundred—and that’s considerable to me now. Anything to show where they were recovered?”

Macloud was nearest the telephone. He took down the receiver. After a time he was answered.

“What do you know about our wallets?” he asked.... “Thank you!—The office says, they were found by one of the bell-boys in a garbage can on King George Street.”

“Very good,” said Croyden. “If they mean fight, I reckon we can accommodate them. Greenberry Point early in the morning.”