Macloud arrived the next day, bringing for his host a great batch of mail, which had accumulated at the Club.

“I thought of it at the last moment—when I was starting for the station, in fact,” he remarked. “The clerk said he had no instructions for forwarding, so I just poked it in my bag and brought it along. Stupid of me not to think of it sooner. Why didn’t you mention it? I can understand why you didn’t leave an address, but not why I shouldn’t forward it.”

“I didn’t care, when I left—and I don’t care much, now—but I’m obliged, just the same!” said Croyden. “It’s something to do; the most exciting incident of the day, down here, is the arrival of the mail. The people wait for it, with bated breath. I am getting in the way, too, though I don’t get much.... I never did have any extensive correspondence, even in Northumberland—so this is just circulars and such trash.”

He took the package, which Macloud handed him, and tossed it on the desk.

“What’s new?” he asked.

“In Northumberland? Nothing—beyond the usual thing. Everybody is back—everybody is hard 218 up or says he is—everybody is full of lies, as usual, and is turning them loose on anyone who will listen, credulous or sophisticated, it makes no difference. It’s the telling, not the believing that’s the thing. Oh! the little cad Mattison is engaged—Charlotte Brundage has landed him, and the wedding is set for early next month.”

“I don’t envy her the job,” Croyden remarked.

“It won’t bother her!” Macloud laughed. “She’ll be privileged to draw on his bank account, and that’s the all important thing with her. He will fracture the seventh commandment, and she won’t turn a hair. She is a chilly proposition, all right.”

“Well, I wish her joy of her bargain,” said Croyden. “May she have everything she wants, and see Mattison not at all, after the wedding journey—and but very occasionally, then.”

He took up the letters and ran carelessly through them.

“Trash! Trash! Trash!” he commented, as he consigned them, one by one, to the waste-basket.

Macloud watched him, languidly, behind his cigar smoke, and made no comment.

Presently Croyden came to a large, white envelope—darkened on the interior so as to prevent the contents from being read until opened. It bore the name of a firm of prominent brokers in Northumberland.

“Humph! Blaxham & Company!” he grunted. “‘We own and offer, subject to prior sale, the 219 following high grade investment bonds.’ Oh yes! I’ll take the whole bundle.” He drew out the letter and looked at it, perfunctorily, before sending it to rest with its fellows.—It wasn’t in the usual form.—He opened it, wider.—It was signed by the senior partner.

“What the devil!——”

He read it a second time. No, he wasn’t asleep—it was all there, typewritten and duly signed. Two hundred thousand dollars!—honor sight draft, or pay cash on presentation and transfer!

“What the devil!” he said, again. Then he passed it across to Macloud. “Read this aloud, will you,—I want to see if I’m quite sane!”

Macloud was at his favorite occupation—blowing smoke rings through one another, and watching them spiral upward toward the ceiling.

“I beg your pardon!” he said, as Croyden’s words roused him from his meditation. “I must have been half asleep. What did you say—read it?” taking the letter.

He and Blaxham had spent considerable time on that letter, trying to explain the reason for the purchase, and the foolishly high price they were offering, in such a way as to mislead Croyden.

“Yes,—aloud! I want to hear someone else read it.”

Macloud looked at him, curiously.

“It is typewritten, you haven’t a chance to get wrong!” he said, wonderingly.

Croyden laughed!

“Read it, please!” he exclaimed.... “So, I wasn’t crazy: and either Blaxham is lying or his customer needs a guardian—which is it?”

“I don’t see that it need concern you, in the least, which it is,” said Macloud. “Be grateful for 221 the offer—and accept by wireless or any other way that’s quicker.”

“But the bonds aren’t worth five cents on the dollar!”

“So much the more reason to hustle the deal through. Sell them! man, sell them! You may have slipped up on the Parmenter treasure, but you have struck it here.”

“Too rich,” Croyden answered. “There’s something queer about that letter.”

Macloud smoked his cigar, and smiled.

“There’s nothing queer about the letter!”—he said. “Blaxham’s customer may have the willies—indeed, he as much as intimates that such is the case—but, thank God! we’re not obliged to have a commission-in-lunacy appointed on everybody who makes a silly stock or bond purchase. If we were, we either would have no markets, or the courts would have time for nothing else. No! no! old man! take what the gods have given you and be glad. There’s ten thousand a year in it! You can return to Northumberland, resume the old life, and be happy ever after;—or you can live here, and there, and everywhere. You’re unattached—not even a light-o’-love to squander your money, and pester you for gowns and hats, and get in a hell of a temper—and be false to you, besides.”

“No, I haven’t one of them, thank God!” laughed Croyden. “I’ve got troubles enough of my own. The present, for instance.” 222

“Troubles!” marvelled Macloud. “You haven’t any troubles, now. This clears them all away.”

“It clears some of them away—if I take it.”

“Thunder! man, you’re not thinking, seriously, of refusing?”

“It will put me on ‘easy street,’” Croyden observed.

“So, why hesitate an instant?”

“And it comes with remarkable timeliness—so timely, indeed, as to be suspicious.”

“Suspicious? Why suspicious? It’s a bona fide offer.”

“It’s a bona fide offer—there’s no trouble on that score.”

“Then, what is the trouble?”

“This,” said Croyden: “I’m broke—finally. The Parmenter treasure is moonshine, so far as I’m concerned. I’m down on my uppers, so to speak—my only assets are some worthless bonds. Behold! along comes an offer for them at par—two hundred thousand dollars for nothing! I fancy, old man, there is a friend back of this offer—the only friend I have in the world—and I did not think that even he was kind and self-sacrificing enough to do it.—I’m grateful, Colin, grateful from the heart, believe me, but I can’t take your money.”

“My money!” exclaimed Macloud—“you do me too much credit, Croyden. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I never thought of the bonds, or of helping you out, in your trouble. It’s a way we have in 223 Northumberland. We may feel for misfortune, but it rarely gets as far as our pockets. Don’t imagine for a moment that I’m the purchaser. I’m not, though I wish, now, that I was.”

“Will you give me your word on that?” Croyden demanded.

“I most assuredly will,” Macloud answered.

Croyden nodded. He was satisfied.

“There is no one else!” he mused, “no one else!” He looked at the letter again.... “And, yet, it is very suspicious, very suspicious.... I wonder, could I ascertain the name of the purchaser of the stocks and bonds, from the Trust Company who held them as collateral?”

“They won’t know,” said Macloud. “Blaxham & Company bought them at the public sale.”

“I could try the transfer agent, or the registrar.”

“They never tell anything, as you are aware,” Macloud replied.

“I could refuse to sell unless Blaxham & Company disclosed their customer.”

“Yes, you could—and, likely, lose the sale; they won’t disclose. However, that’s your business,” Macloud observed; “though, it’s a pity to tilt at windmills, for a foolish notion.”

Croyden creased and uncreased the letter—thinking.

Macloud resumed the smoke rings—and waited. It had proved easier than he had anticipated. Croyden had not once thought of Elaine Cavendish—and 224 his simple word had been sufficient to clear himself....

At length, Croyden put the letter back in its envelope and looked up.

“I’ll sell the bonds,” he said—“forward them at once with draft attached, if you will witness my signature to the transfer. But it’s a queer proceeding, a queer proceeding: paying good money for bad!”

“That’s his business—not yours,” said Macloud, easily.

Croyden went to the escritoire and took the bonds from one of the drawers.

“You can judge, from the place I keep them, how much I thought them worth!” he laughed.

When they were duly transferred and witnessed, Croyden attached a draft drawn on an ordinary sheet of paper, dated Northumberland, and payable to his account at the Tuscarora Trust Company. He placed them in an envelope, sealed it and, enclosing it in a second envelope, passed it over to Macloud.

“I don’t care to inform them as to my whereabouts,” he remarked, “so, if you don’t mind, I’ll trouble you to address this to some one in New York or Philadelphia, with a request that he mail the enclosed envelope for you.”

Macloud, when he had done as requested, laid aside the pen and looked inquiringly at Croyden.

“Which, being interpreted,” he said, “might 225 mean that you don’t intend to return to Northumberland.”

“The interpretation does not go quite so far; it means, simply, that I have not decided.”

“Don’t you want to come back?” Macloud asked.

“It’s a question of resolution, not of inclination,” Croyden answered. “I don’t know whether I’ve sufficient resolution to go, and sufficient resolution to stay, if I do go. It may be easier not to go, at all—to live here, and wander, elsewhere, when the spirit moves.”

And Macloud understood. “I’ve been thinking over the proposition you recently advanced of the folly of a relatively poor man marrying a rich girl,” he said, “and you’re all wrong. It’s a question of the respective pair, not a theory that can be generalized over. I admit, the man should not be a pauper, but, if he have enough money to support himself, and the girl love him and he loves the girl, the fact that she has gobs more money, won’t send them on the rocks. It’s up to the pair, I repeat.”

“Meaning, that it would be up to Elaine Cavendish and me?” answered Croyden.

“If you please, yes!” said Macloud.

“I wish I could be so sure,” Croyden reflected. “Sure of the girl, as well as sure of myself.”

“What are you doubtful about—yourself?”

Croyden laughed, a trifle self-consciously. 226

“I fancy I could manage myself,” he said.

“Elaine?”

“Yes, Elaine!”

“Try her!—she’s worth the try.”

“From a monetary standpoint?” smiling.

“Get the miserable money out of your mind a moment, will you?—you’re hipped on it!”

“All right, old man, anything for peace! Tell me, did you see her, when you were home?”

“I did—I dined with her.”

“Who else was there?”

“You—she talked Croyden at least seven-eighths of the time; I, the other eighth.”

“Must have been an interesting conversation. Anything left of the victim, afterward?”

“I refuse to become facetious,” Macloud responded. Then he threw his cigar into the grate and arose. “It matters not what was said, nor who said it! If you will permit me the advice, you will take your chance while you have it.”

“Have I a—chance?” Croyden asked.

“You have—more than a chance, if you act, now——” He walked across to the window. He would let that sink in.—“How’s the Symphony in Blue?” he asked.

“As charming as ever—and prepared for your coming.”

“What?”

“As charming as ever, and prepared for your coming.” 227

“Some of your work!” he commented. “Did you propose for me?”

“I left that finality for you—being the person most interested.”

“Thanks! you’re exceedingly considerate.”

“I thought you would appreciate it.”

“When did you arrange for me to go over?” asked Macloud.

“Any time—the sooner the quicker. She’ll be glad to see you.”

“She confided in you, I suppose?”

“Not directly; she let me infer it.”

“In other words, you worked your imagination—overtime!” laughed Macloud. “It’s a pity you couldn’t work it a bit over the Parmenter jewels. You might locate them.”

“I’m done with the Parmenter jewels!” said Croyden.

“But they’re not done with you, my friend. So long as you live, they’ll be present with you. You’ll be hunting for them in your dreams.”

“Meet me to-night in dream-land!” sang Croyden. “Well, they’re not likely to disturb my slumbers—unless—there was a rather queer thing happened, last night, Colin.”

“Here?”

“Yes!—I got in to Hampton, in the evening; about nine o’clock, I was returning to Clarendon when, at the gates, I was accosted by a tall, well-dressed 228 stranger. Here is the substance of our talk.... What do you make of it?” he ended.

“It seems to me the fellow made it very plain,” Macloud returned, “except on one possible point. He evidently believes we found the treasure.”

“He is convinced of it.”

“Then, he knows that you came direct from Annapolis to Hampton—I mean, you didn’t visit a bank nor other place where you could have deposited the jewels. Ergo, the jewels are still in your possession, according to his theory, and he is going to make a try for them while they are within reach. Informing the Government is a bluff. He hoped, by that means, to induce you to keep the jewels on the premises—not to make evidence against yourself, which could be traced by the United States, by depositing them in any bank.”

“Why shouldn’t I have taken them to a dealer in precious stones?” said Croyden.

“Because that would make the best sort of evidence against you. You must remember, he thinks you have the jewels, and that you will try to conceal it, pending a Government investigation.”

“You make him a very canny gentleman.”

“No—I make him only a clever rogue, which, by your own account, he is.”

“And the more clever he is, the more he will have his wits’ work for naught. There’s some compensation in everything—even in failure!” 229

“It would be a bit annoying,” observed Macloud, “to be visited by burglars, who are obsessed with the idea that you have a fortune concealed on the premises, and are bent on obtaining it.”

“Annoying?—not a bit!” smiled Croyden. “I should rather enjoy the sport of putting them to flight.”

“Or of being bound, and gagged, and ill-treated.”

“Bosh! you’ve transferred your robber-barons from Northumberland to the Eastern Shore.”

“No, I haven’t!” laughed Macloud. “The robber-barons were still on the job in Northumberland. These are banditti, disguised as burglars, about to hold you up for ransom.”

“I wish I had your fine imagination,” scoffed Croyden. “I could make a fortune writing fiction.”

“Oh, you’re not so bad yourself!” Macloud retorted. Then he smiled. “Apropos of fortunes!” and nodded toward the envelope on the table. “It’s bully good to think you’re coming back to us!”

At that moment Moses passed along the hall.

“Here, Moses,” said Croyden, “take this letter down to the post office—I want it to catch the first mail.”

“I fancy you haven’t heard of the stranger since last evening?” Macloud asked.

Croyden shook his head.

“And of course you haven’t told any one?” 230

“Yes, I have!” said Croyden.

“A woman?”

“A woman.”

“How strange!” commented Macloud, mockingly. “I suppose you even told her the entire story—from the finding of the letter down to date.”

“I did!—and showed her the letter besides. Why shouldn’t I have done it?”

“No reason in the world, my dear fellow—except that in twenty-four hours the dear public will know it, and we shall be town curiosities.”

“We don’t have to remain,” said Croyden, with affected seriousness—“there are trains out, you know, as well as in.”

“I don’t want to go away—I came here to visit you.”

“We will go together.”

“But we can’t take the Symphony in Blue!”

“Oh! that’s it!” Croyden laughed.

“Certainly, that’s it! You don’t think I came down here to see only you, after having just spent nearly four weeks with you, in that fool quest on Greenberry Point?” He turned, suddenly, and faced Croyden. “Who was the woman you told?”

“Miss Carrington!” Croyden laughed. “Think she will retail it to the dear public?”

“Oh, go to thunder!”

“Because, if you do, you might mention it to her—there, she goes, now!” 231

“Where?” said Macloud, whirling around toward the window.

Croyden made no reply. It was not necessary. On the opposite side of the street, Miss Carrington—in a tailored gown of blue broadcloth, close fitting and short in the skirt, with a velvet toque to match—was swinging briskly back from town.

Macloud watched her a moment in silence.

“The old man is done for, at last!” Croyden thought.

“Isn’t she a corker!” Macloud broke out. “Look at the poise of the head, and ease of carriage, and the way she puts down her feet!—that’s the way to tell a woman. God! Croyden, she’s thoroughbred!”

“You better go over,” said his friend. “It’s about the tea hour, she’ll brew you a cup.”

“And I’ll drink it—as much as she will give me. I despise the stuff, but I’ll drink it!”

“She’ll put rum in it, if you prefer!” laughed Croyden; “or make you a high ball, or you can have it straight—just as you want.”

“Come along!” exclaimed Macloud. “We’re wasting time.”

“I’ll be over, presently,” Croyden replied. “I don’t want any tea, you know.”

“Good!” Macloud answered, from the hallway. “Come along, as soon as you wish—but don’t come too soon.”