Mr. Jeremy Hammond personally conducted the search.

The evergreen cabin had been erected without foundation save a number of cross beams. There was no cellar except one a few feet square under the small room that served as a kitchen. The logs that upheld the old house were singularly free from decay.

Standing upon one of them, a line of Girl Scouts on either side of him, Mr. Hammond gazed downward with an air of discouragement.

“I am obliged to confess I see no place that gives one a right to believe we shall discover a secret treasure,” he remarked. “I am glad Kara is unaware of our effort. I was wrong in speaking to her on the subject. I suppose I am hopelessly romantic and have been cherishing the idea of some day discovering further information about the little girl I rescued a number of years ago. We shall find nothing here.”

Tory touched him on the arm.

“Please, Mr. Hammond, don’t let us start out upon our search in such a hopeless spirit. I feel as you say you do about Kara. Ever since I met her I have been convinced we would learn that she had a delightful background of some kind, which would explain why she is so brave and charming.”

Mr. Hammond smiled.

“No, Tory, I cannot go so far as you. I have never anticipated so much. Besides, I do not consider it necessary. Personality is the strongest force in the world, not the question of one’s immediate ancestors. I am not decrying the ancestors, only if one possesses an unusual personality it may come from further back in the stream of life and the stream was the same for us all in the beginning.

“I have merely hoped to come across a clue which might give Kara an idea of her parentage, or perhaps, a relative who would be kind and interested in her.”

Tory looked disappointed.

“Kara has plenty of people who are interested in her, and friends may be as satisfactory as relatives.” In this sentiment Mr. Hammond may or may not have agreed. Already he had commenced tapping on the logs with the end of his cane and digging underneath in any stray spot that he hoped might develop into the receptacle of a box or treasure of some kind.

The girls went about upon their own quests. Unfortunate that there was no greater amount of space, no secret chambers and passages to be investigated. This would have lent a glamour, a romance that nothing about the little evergreen cabin afforded.

An hour and the exploration became of necessity over.

Nothing of any interest had been unearthed.

Disconsolately Mr. Hammond seated himself upon an upturned stool. A few of the Girl Scouts clustered about him; the others unwilling to give up, were still poking about in unlikely places.

Alone Tory Drew’s original ardor continued unquenched.

All day she had a vision of herself going to Kara at the old Gray House with information that would bring a new happiness into the clear gray eyes grown so wistful in these weeks of a summer time they had thought to be so happy.

No one place had been more thoroughly searched than the corners of the old brick fireplace that divided the living room and the kitchen with a single chimney.

Yet kneeling down once more Tory began a last search, poking about into impossible crannies.

Exhausted, she finally surrendered. No reward was to be theirs, and they had only been wasting valuable energy and time.

Nevertheless Tory did not feel in the mood for discussing this obvious fact with the others.

Near the old fireplace was a small collection of loose bricks. Arranging them into a low square Tory seated herself, leaning her head against the left corner of the chimney.

Suddenly she had a sensation of dizziness. Her head seemed to be swimming from the fatigue perhaps and the disappointment of her futile search.

She straightened, biting her lips and wondering why she was not more physically uncomfortable than she felt herself to be.

Then hearing a crumbling noise behind her, Tory turned her eyes. The bricks against which her head had been resting had been loosened. She had not been dizzy, the movement had taken place in them.

Picking up a stick that lay beside her feet she thrust it idly inside a tiny crevice.

Actually by this time Tory had lost interest in what had been an ardent enthusiasm earlier in the day.

She was excited, however, when a brick, displaced from its former position, tumbled to the ground, yet for the moment uttered no exclamation that might attract attention.

Thrusting her hand into the opening she tugged at another brick. The exertion was unnecessary. It yielded at once to her touch. Two other bricks were as easily removed.

Tory then discovered a hollow opening several feet deep.

There was nothing visible inside; the space appeared dark and empty.

Then Tory did call out and Mr. Hammond and the group of Girl Scouts crowded close about her.

“Would you mind thrusting your hand inside and seeing if there is anything stored away? I don’t think it very nice of me to ask you because I am afraid of touching something spooky or clammy. Do you mind?”

Apparently Mr. Hammond did not object. Unmindful of his coat sleeve, he was thrusting the entire length of his arm into the hollow recess.

“I wonder if this was not a Dutch oven that was covered over when it failed to be used. In that case I may find a petrified loaf of bread or pumpkin pie,” Mr. Hammond remarked in a slightly ironical tone, bored by this time.

An instant later his expression altered sufficiently for the group of girls watching to become conscious of the change. The next he drew forth a small package of letters tied together with a worn cord.

Were they of the remotest interest or value?

No one could say. At least the audience was willing to offer them the benefit of an investigation.

Joan Peters went away to her tent, returning with a candle.

If there was anything else inside the dark enclosure the lighted candle would show it forth.

Except for the letters the recess was empty.

Mr. Hammond continued to hold the packet and stare at it.

“Don’t you think you had best open the letters and read what they say?” Tory asked restlessly, wishing that Mr. Hammond would give her the opportunity. After all, she had been the real discoverer, even if her hands had not first touched the yellowed papers. Perhaps they would contain thrilling information for Kara. She might be an heiress or possessed of a more romantic heritage.

Mr. Hammond appeared doubtful.

“I don’t know; I don’t feel as if I were at liberty to open the letters. I have no authority and they can have no association with me. Perhaps I had best speak first to Dr. McClain and then take them to Kara.”

“But, Mr. Hammond,” Dorothy McClain protested, “why should you conclude that a small package of letters discovered in the way that we have come across these can have any connection with Katherine Moore? The letters may have been thrust into the old fireplace to burn and been forgotten. Surely there can be no objection to your looking over them first! Then you may be able to decide to whom they should be presented. After all, the little evergreen cabin belongs to our Troop of Girl Scouts. Mr. Fenton bought the place and gave it to us. You have our permission. Besides, we would like to look at the letters with you. I am so excited I really cannot endure to wait any longer.”