Both girls dashed forward to snatch the dog’s treasure-trove from him. But Rags had apparently made up his mind that, after his arduous labors, he was going to have the privilege of examining his find himself. At any rate, he would not be easily robbed. Seizing the burlap bag in his mouth, he raced to the water’s edge and stood there, guarding his treasure with mock fierceness. Phyllis, being a stranger, he would not even allow to approach him, but growled ominously if she came within ten feet of his vicinity. And when Rags growled, it behooved the stranger to have a care! Leslie he pretended to welcome, but no sooner had she approached near enough to lay her hand on the bag than he seized it triumphantly and raced up the beach.

“Oh, do grab him, somehow!” cried Phyllis, in despair. “He’ll drop the thing in the water and the next breaker will wash it away, and we’ll never know what it was!”

Leslie herself was no less anxious to filch his treasure, but Rags had by now acquired a decidedly frolicsome spirit, and the chase he led them was long and weary. Three times he dropped the bag directly in the path of a breaker, and once it was actually washed out, and the girls groaned in chorus as they saw it flung into the boiling surf. But another wave washed it ashore, only to land it again in the custody of Rags before Leslie could seize it.

Finally, however, he wearied of the sport, and sensing the sad fact that his prize was in no wise edible, he dropped it suddenly to pursue an unsuspecting hermit-crab. The girls fell joyfully upon the long-sought treasure and bore it to the veranda of Curlew’s Nest for further examination.

“What under the sun can it be?” marveled the curious Phyllis. “Something heavy, and all sewed up in a coarse bag like that! It’s as good as a ghost story. Let’s get at it right away.”

They sat down on the wet steps while Leslie unrolled the bag,—not much larger than a big salt-bag,—and tried to tear an opening at the top. But her slender fingers were not equal to the task, so Phyllis undertook it.

“Let me try!” she urged. “I play the piano a great deal and my fingers are very strong.”

And sure enough, it did not take her more than a moment to make an opening and thrust her hand into it. What she found there she drew out and laid in Leslie’s lap, while the two girls gasped simultaneously at the singular object they had discovered.

To begin with, it was encrusted with sand and corroded by the contact of salt air and seawater. But when they had brushed off the sand and polished it as well as they could with the burlap bag, it stood forth in something of its original appearance—a small box or casket of some heavy metal, either bronze or copper, completely covered with elaborate carving. It was about six inches long, three wide, and two in height. It stood on four legs, and, upon examination, the carving proved to be the body of a winged serpent of some kind, completely encircling the box, the head projecting over the front edge where the lock or fastening of the cover would be. The legs of the receptacle were the creature’s claws. The carving was remarkably fine and delicate in workmanship.

“My gracious!” breathed Phyllis. “Did you ever see anything so strange! What can it be?”

“And isn’t it beautiful!” added Leslie. “What can that queer creature be that’s carved on it? Looks to me like the pictures of dragons that we used to have in fairy-story books.”

“That’s just what it is! You’ve hit it! I couldn’t think what it was at first—it’s so wound around the box!” cried Phyllis. “But this thing is certainly a box of some kind, and there must be some opening to it and probably something in it. Let’s try now to get it open.”

But that was easier said than done. Try as they would, they could find no way of opening the casket. The dragon’s head came down over the lock or clasp, and there was no vestige of keyhole or catch or spring. And so intricate was the carving, that there was not even any crack or crevice where the lid fitted down over the body of the box into which they could insert Phyllis’s penknife blade to pry it open by force. The casket and its contents was a baffling mystery, and the wicked looking little dragon seemed to guard the secret with positive glee, so malicious was its expression!

Phyllis at last threw down her knife in disgust and rattled the box impatiently. “Something bumps around in there!” she declared. “I can hear it distinctly, but I don’t believe we’ll ever be able to get at it. I never saw such a queer affair! Let’s try to break it with an ax. Have you one?”

“Oh, don’t do that!” cried Leslie, horrified. “It would surely spoil this beautiful box and might even injure what’s in it. There must be some other way of getting it open if only we take our time and go at it carefully.”

They both sat for several moments regarding their find with resentful curiosity. Suddenly Leslie’s thoughts took a new tack, “How in the world did it ever come there—buried in the sand like that?”

“Thrown up on the beach by the waves, of course,” declared Phyllis, positively; “no doubt from some wreck, and buried in the sand after a while, just naturally, as lots of things are.”

The explanation was a very probable one. “But it’s rather far from the water’s edge,” objected Leslie.

“Oh, no, indeed! Why in winter the surf often comes up right under the bungalows!” remarked Phyllis, in quite an offhanded way.

“Mercy! Don’t ever tell Aunt Marcia that, or she’d go straight home!” exclaimed Leslie. “But isn’t it queer that it just happened to be right in front of Curlew’s Nest! Everything queer seems to happen right around that place.”

“That’s so! I’d almost forgotten the other thing. But what I can’t understand is how your dog happened to dig the thing up.”

“Oh, that’s simple! He’s always chasing hermit-crabs—it’s a great sport of his. And I suppose it just happened that one dug itself down in the sand right here, and he dug after it and then came across this.”

Phyllis had a sudden brilliant idea. “Let’s go and examine the hole! Perhaps there’s something else in it.”

They both raced over to the stump and Leslie thrust her hand into the hole. “There’s nothing else in there,” she averred, “but perhaps it might be worth while to dig around here and see if there might be some other article buried near it. I’ll get a shovel.”

She disappeared behind her own bungalow for a moment and returned with a shovel. They dug furiously for ten minutes and turned up the sand all about the original hole. Nothing of the slightest interest came to light, however, and they presently abandoned the attempt and filled in the hole again.

“This is all there was—that’s plain,” declared Phyllis, “and all we can think is that it was cast up from some wreck and got buried here.”

But Leslie had been thinking. “Has it occurred to you, Phyllis, that it might have something to do with Curlew’s Nest and the queer thing that happened here? I wonder how long it has been lying in that hole?”

They examined the find again. “I can tell you one thing,” said Phyllis, “if it had been in that sand a long time, I think it would look rather different. To begin with, the burlap bag is in very good condition, whole and strong. It wouldn’t take very long in there for it to become ragged and go to pieces. And besides that, the box would look different. You know that metal like this gets badly corroded and tarnished in a very little while when it’s exposed even to this salt air, not to speak of the water too. I know, because we have some copper trays at the bungalow and they’re always a sight! I have to keep polishing and polishing them to make them look nice. Now this box is very little tarnished since we rubbed it up. It makes me sure it hasn’t been buried long.”

“Well, has there been a wreck, then, very lately?” demanded Leslie.

“Not since last July—and that was only a fishing schooner. No chance in the world that such as this would be aboard of her!”

“Then, as far as I can see, this box must have been buried here—deliberately—and very recently, too!” declared Leslie, solemnly. “Can you think of any other explanation?”

“Leslie, could it have been done last night?” demanded Phyllis, in an awed whisper.

“Oh—I never thought of that. Perhaps it was. Perhaps that was the meaning of the light and all. Phyllis, there’s some queer mystery here! I wonder if we ought to tell folks about it?”

“Oh don’t!” implored Phyllis. “Not for a while, at least. It would be so wonderful to have this as a secret of our own and see what we can make of it. Just suppose we could work it out for ourselves!”

“Well—it would be a lark, and I only hope it’s all right. But I’m going to ask you one favor, Phyllis. Please take the little box and keep it at your house, for I don’t want Aunt Marcia to be worried about the matter, and she might come across it if I kept it here. And I must be going in now, or she’ll be worried.” And she thrust the box into Phyllis’s hand.

“Indeed, I’ll keep it gladly and hide it safely, too. This is one secret I won’t have Ted meddling in!” declared Phyllis. “Let’s call the box ‘The Dragon’s Secret.’ He seems to be guarding very successfully! I’ll come back this afternoon and call, and we can talk this over some more. Good-by!”

And she turned away toward the direction of her own bungalow, with “The Dragon’s Secret” carefully concealed beneath her rainproof coat.