Macloud found Miss Carrington plucking a few belated roses, which, somehow, had escaped the frost.

She looked up at his approach, and smiled—the bewilderingly bewitching smile which lighted her whole countenance and seemed to say so much.

“Back again! to Clarendon and its master?” was her greeting.

“And, if I may, to you,” he replied.

“Very good! After them, you belong to me,” she laughed.

“Why after?” he inquired.

“I don’t know—it was the order of speech, and the order of acquaintance,” with a naive look.

“But not the order of—regard.”

“Content!” she exclaimed. “You did it very well for a—novice.”

He tapped the gray hair upon his temples.

“A novice?” he inflected.

“You decline to accept it?—Very well, sir, very well!”

“I can’t accept, and be honest,” he replied.

“And you must be honest! Oh, brave man! Oh, noble gentleman! Perchance, you will accept a reward: a cup of tea—or a high ball!” 233

“Perchance, I will—the high ball!”

“I thought so! come along.”

“You were not going out?”

She looked at him, with a sly smile.

“You know that I have just returned,” she said. “I saw you in the window at Clarendon.”

“I was there,” he admitted.

“And you came over at once—prepared to be surprised that I was here.”

“And found you waiting for me—just as I expected.”

“Oh!” she cried. “You’re horrid! perfectly horrid!”

“Peccavi! Peccavi!” he said humbly.

“Te absolvo!” she replied, solemnly. “Now, let us make a fresh start—by going for a walk. You can postpone the high ball until we return.”

“I can postpone the high ball for ever,” he averred.

“Meaning, you could walk forever, or you’re not thirsty?” she laughed.

“Meaning, I could walk forever with you—on, and on, and on——”

“Until you walked into the Bay—I understand. I’ll take the will for the deed—the water’s rather chilly at this season of the year.”

Macloud held up his hand, in mock despair.

“Let us make a third start—drop the attempt to be clever and talk sense. I think I can do it, if I try.” 234

“Willingly!” she responded.

As they came out on the side walk, Croyden was going down the street. He crossed over and met them.

“I’ve not forgot your admonition, so don’t be uneasy,” he observed to Macloud. “I’m going to town now, I’ll be back in about half an hour—is that too soon?”

“It’s quite soon enough!” was the answer.

Miss Carrington looked at Macloud, quizzically, but made no comment.

“Shall we take the regulation walk?” she asked.

“The what?”

“The regulation walk—to the Cemetery and back.”

“I’m glad we’re coming back?” he laughed.

“It’s the favorite walk, here,” she explained—“the most picturesque and the smoothest.”

“To say nothing of accustoming the people to their future home,” Macloud remarked.

“You’re not used to the ways of small towns—the Cemetery is a resort, a place to spend a while, a place to visit.”

“Does it make death any easier to hob-nob with it?” he asked.

“I shouldn’t think so,” she replied. “However, I can see how it would induce morbidity, though there are those who are happiest only when they’re miserable.”

“Such people ought to live in a morgue,” agreed 235 Macloud. “However we’re safe enough—we can go to the Cemetery with impunity.”

“There are some rather queer old headstones, out there,” she said. “Remorse and the inevitable pay-up for earthly transgression seem to be the leading subjects. There is one in the Duval lot—the Duvals from whom Mr. Croyden got Clarendon, you know—and I never have been able to understand just what it means. It is erected to the memory of one Robert Parmenter, and has cut in the slab the legend: ‘He feared nor man, nor god, nor devil,’ and below it, a man on his knees making supplication to one standing over him. If he feared nor man, nor god, nor devil, why should he be imploring mercy from any one?”

“Do you know who Parmenter was?” said Macloud.

“No—but I presume a connection of the family, from having been buried with them.”

“You read his letter only last evening—his letter to Marmaduke Duval.”

“His letter to Marmaduke Duval!” she repeated. “I didn’t read any——”

“Robert Parmenter is the pirate who buried the treasure on Greenberry Point,” he interrupted.

Then, suddenly, a light broke in on her.

“I see!—I didn’t look at the name signed to the letter. And the cutting on the tombstone——?”

“Is a victim begging mercy from him,” said Macloud. “I like that Marmaduke Duval—there’s 236 something fine in a man, in those times, bringing the old buccaneer over from Annapolis and burying him beside the place where he, himself, some day would rest.—That is friendship!”

“And that is like the Duvals!” said she. “It was a sad day in Hampton when the Colonel died.”

“He left a good deputy,” Macloud replied. “Croyden is well-born and well-bred (the former does not always comprehend the latter, these days), and of Southern blood on his mother’s side.”

“Which hasn’t hurt him with us!” she smiled. “We are a bit clannish, still.”

“Delighted to hear you confess it! I’ve got a little of it myself.”

“Southern blood?”

He nodded. “Mine doesn’t go so far South, however, as Croyden’s—only, to Virginia.”

“I knew it! I knew there was some reason for my liking you!” she laughed.

“Can I find any other reason?”

“Than your Southern ancestors?—isn’t that enough?”

“Not if there be a means to increase it.”

“Southern blood is never satisfied with some things—it always wants more!”

“Is the disposition to want more, in Southerners, confined to the male sex?” he laughed.

“In some things—yes, unquestionably yes!” she retorted. Then changed the subject. “Has Mr. Croyden told you of his experience, last evening?” 237

“With the stranger, yes?”

“Do you think he is in danger?”

“What possible danger could there be—the treasure isn’t at Clarendon.”

“But they think it is—and desperate men sometimes take desperate means, when they feel sure that money is hidden on the premises.”

“In a town the size of Hampton, every stranger is known.”

“How will that advantage, in the prevention of the crime?” she asked.

“By making it difficult.”

“They don’t need stay in the town—they can come in an automobile.”

“They could also drive, or walk, or come by boat,” he added.

“They are not so likely to try it if there are two in the house. Do you intend to remain at Clarendon some time?”

“It depends—on how you treat me.”

“I engage to be nice for—two weeks!” she smiled.

“Done!—I’m booked for two weeks, at least.”

“And when the two weeks have expired we shall consider whether to extend the period.”

“To—life?” smiling down at her.

She flung him a look that was delightfully alluring.

“Do you wish me to—consider that?” she asked, softly. 238

“If you will,” he said, bending down.

She laughed, gayly.

“We are coming on!” she exclaimed. “This pace is getting rather brisk—did you notice it, Mr. Macloud?”

“You’re in a fast class, Miss Carrington.”

She glanced up quickly.

“Now don’t misunderstand me——”

“You were speaking in the language of the race track, I presume.”

“I was—you understand?”

“A Southern girl usually loves—horses,” with a tantalizing smile.

“It is well for you this is a public street,” he said.

“Why?” she asked, with assumed innocence.

“But then if it hadn’t been, you would not have ventured to tempt me,” he added. “I’m grateful for the temptation, at any rate.”

“His first temptation!” she mocked.

“No, not likely—but his first that he has resisted.”

“And why did you resist? The fact that we are on a public street would not restrain you. There was absolutely no one within sight—and you knew it.”

“How do you know it?”

“Because I looked.”

“You were afraid?”

“Not at all!—only careful.” 239

“This is rather faster than the former going!” he laughed.

“We would better slow down a bit!” she laughed back. “Any way, here is the Cemetery, and we dare not go faster than a walk in it. Yonder, just within the gates, is the Duval burial place. Come, I’ll show you Parmenter’s grave?”

They crossed to it—marked by a blue slate slab, which covered it entirely. The inscription, cut in script, was faint in places and blurred by moss, in others.

Macloud stooped and, with his knife, scratched out the latter.

“He died two days after the letter was written: May 12, 1738,” said he. “His age is not given. Duval did not know it, I reckon.”

“See, here is the picture—it stands out very plainly,” said Miss Carrington, indicating with the point of her shoe.

“I’m not given to moralizing, particularly over a grave,” observed Macloud, “but it’s queer to think that the old pirate, who had so much blood and death on his hands, who buried the treasure, and who wrote the letter, lies at our feet; and we—or rather Croyden is the heir of that treasure, and that we searched and dug all over Greenberry Point, committed violence, were threatened with violence, did things surreptitiously, are threatened, anew, with blackmail and violence——”

“Pirate’s gold breeds pirate’s ways,” she quoted. 240

“It does seem one cannot get away from its pollution. It was gathered in crime and crime clings to it, still. However, I fancy Croyden would willingly chance the danger, if he could unearth the casket.”

“And is there no hope of finding it?” she asked.

“Absolutely none—there’s half a million over on Greenberry Point, or in the water close by, and none will ever see it—except by accident.”

“What sort of accident?”

“I don’t know!” he laughed. “My own idea—and Croyden’s (as he has, doubtless, explained to you) is that the place, where Parmenter buried the jewels, is now under water, possibly close to the shore. We dragged every inch of the bottom, which has been washed away to a depth more than sufficient to uncover the iron box, but found nothing. A great storm, such as they say sometimes breaks over the Chesapeake, may wash it on the beach—that, I think, is the only way it will ever be found.... It makes everything seem very real to have stood by Parmenter’s grave!” he said, thoughtful, as they turned back toward town.

On nearing the Carrington house, they saw Croyden approaching. They met him at the gates.

“I’ve been communing with Parmenter,” said Macloud.

“I didn’t know there was a spiritualistic medium in Hampton! What does the old man look like?” smiled Croyden. 241

“I didn’t see him.”

“Well, did he help you to locate his jewel box?”

“He wasn’t especially communicative—he was in his grave.”

“That isn’t surprising—he’s been dead something over one hundred and seventy years. Did he confide where he’s buried?”

“He’s buried with the Duvals in the Cemetery, here.”

“He is!” Croyden exclaimed. “Humph! one more circumstance to prove the letter speaks the truth. Everything but the thing itself. We find his will, probated with Marmaduke Duval as executor, we even discover a notice of his death in the Gazette, and now, finally, you find his body—or the place of its interment! But, hang it all! what is really worth while, we can’t find.”

“Come into the house—I’ll give you something to soothe your feelings temporarily,” said Miss Carrington.

They encountered Miss Erskine just coming from the library on her way to the door.

“My dear Davila, so glad to see you!” she exclaimed. “And Mr. Croyden, we thought you had deserted us, and just when we’re trying to make you feel at home. So glad to welcome you back!” holding out her fat hand.

“I’m delighted to be back,” said Croyden. “The Carringtons seemed genuinely glad to see me—and, now, if I may include you, I’m quite content 242 to return,” and he shook her hand, as though he meant it.

“Of course you may believe it,” with an inane giggle. “I’m going to bring my art class over to Clarendon to revel in your treasures, some day, soon. You’ll be at home to them, won’t you, dear Mr. Croyden?”

“Surely! I shall take pleasure in being at home,” Croyden replied, soberly.

Then Macloud, who was talking with the Captain, was called over and presented, that being, Miss Carrington thought, the quickest method of getting rid of her. The evident intention to remain until he was presented, being made entirely obvious by Miss Erskine, who, after she had bubbled a bit more, departed.

“What is her name, I didn’t catch it?—and” (observing smiles on Croyden and Miss Carrington’s faces) “what is she?”

“I think father can explain, in more appropriate language!” Miss Carrington laughed.

“She’s the most intolerable nuisance and greatest fool in Hampton!” Captain Carrington exploded.

“A red flag to a bull isn’t in it with Miss Erskine and father,” Miss Carrington observed.

“But I hide it pretty well—while she’s here,” he protested.

“If she’s not here too long—and you can get away, in time.”

When the two men left the Carrington place, 243 darkness had fallen. As they approached Clarendon, the welcoming brightness of a well-lighted house sprang out to greet them. It was Croyden’s one extravagance—to have plenty of illumination. He had always been accustomed to it, and the gloom, at night, of the village residence, bright only in library or living room—with, maybe, a timid taper in the hall—set his nerves on edge. He would have none of it. And Moses, with considerable wonder at, to his mind, the waste of gas, and much grumbling to himself and Josephine, obeyed.

They had finished dinner and were smoking their cigars in the library, when Croyden, suddenly bethinking himself of a matter which he had forgotten, arose and pulled the bell.

“Survent, seh!” said old Mose a moment later from the doorway.

“Moses, who is the best carpenter in town?” Croyden asked.

“Mistah Snyder, seh—he wuz heah dis arfternoon, yo knows, seh!”

“I didn’t know it,” said Croyden.

“Why yo sont ’im, seh.”

“I sent him! I don’t know the man.”

“Dat’s mons’us ’culiar, seh—he said yo sont ’im. He com’d ’torrectly arfter yo lef! Him an’ a’nudder man, seh—I didn’t know the nudder man, hows’ever.”

“What did they want?” Croyden asked. 244

“Dey sed yo warn dem to look over all de place, seh, an’ see what repairs wuz necessary, and fix dem. Dey wuz heah a’most two hours, I s’pose.”

“This is most extraordinary!” Croyden exclaimed. “Do you mean they were in this house for two hours?”

“Yass, seh.”

“What were they doing?”

“’Zaminin the furniture everywhere. I didn’t stays wid em, seh—I knows Mistah Snyder well; he’s bin heah off’n to wuk befo’ yo cum, seh. But I seed dem gwine th’oo de drawers, an’ poundin on the floohs, seh. Dey went down to de cellar, too, seh, an wuz dyar quite a while.”

“Are you sure it was Snyder?” Croyden asked.

“Sut’n’y! seh, don’t you t’inks I knows ’im? I knows ’im from de time he wuz so high.”

Croyden nodded. “Go down and tell Snyder I want to see him, either to-night or in the morning.”

The negro bowed, and departed.

Croyden got up and went to the escritoire: the drawers were in confusion. He glanced at the book-cases: the books were disarranged. He turned and looked, questioningly, at Macloud—and a smile slowly overspread his face.

“Well, the tall gentleman has visited us!” he said.

“I wondered how long you would be coming to it!” Macloud remarked. “It’s the old ruse, 245 in a slightly modified form. Instead of a telephone or gas inspector, it was a workman whom the servant knew; a little more trouble in disguising himself, but vastly more satisfactory in results.”

“They are clever rogues,” said Croyden—“and the disguise must have been pretty accurate to deceive Moses.”

“Disguise is their business,” Macloud replied, laconically. “If they’re not proficient in it, they go to prison—sure.”

“And if they are proficient, they go—sometimes.”

“Certainly!—sometimes.”

“We’ll make a tour of inspection—they couldn’t find what they wanted, so we’ll see what they took.”

They went over the house. Every drawer was turned upside down, every closet awry, every place, where the jewels could be concealed, bore evidence of having been inspected—nothing, apparently, had been missed. They had gone through the house completely, even into the garret, where every board that was loose had evidently been taken up and replaced—some of them carelessly.

Not a thing was gone, so far as Croyden could judge—possibly, because there was no money in the house; probably, because they were looking for jewels, and scorned anything of moderate value.

“Really, this thing grows interesting—if it were not so ridiculous,” said Croyden. “I’m willing to go to almost any trouble to convince them I 246 haven’t the treasure—just to be rid of them. I wonder what they will try next?”

“Abduction, maybe,” Macloud suggested. “Some night a black cloth will be thrown over your head, you’ll be tossed into a cab—I mean, an automobile—and borne off for ransom like Charlie Ross of fading memory.”

“Moral—don’t venture out after sunset!” laughed Croyden.

“And don’t venture out at any time without a revolver handy and a good pair of legs,” added Macloud.

“I can work the legs better than I can the revolver.”

“Or, to make sure, you might have a guard of honor and a gatling gun.”

“You’re appointed to the position—provide yourself with the gun!”

“But, seriously!” said Macloud, “it would be well to take some precaution. They seem obsessed with the idea that you have the jewels, here—and they evidently intend to get a share, if it’s possible.”

“What precaution, for instance?” scoffed Croyden.

Macloud shrugged his shoulders, helplessly.

“I wish I knew,” he said.