That very same evening Patty had a chance to speak to Sinclair alone.

It was just after dinner, and the lovely English twilight was beginning to cast long, soft shadows of the tall cypresses across the lawn. The various members of the family were standing about on the terrace, when Sinclair said, “You need some exercise, Patty; let’s walk as far as the alcove.”

Patty assented, and the two strolled away, while Mabel called after them, “Don’t be gone long, for we’re all going to play games this evening.”

They all loved games, so Patty promised to return very soon.

“I never saw anything like this alcove before in my life,” said Patty, as they reached the picturesque spot and sat down upon the curving marble seat.

“They are often found in the gardens of old English homes. Any arched or covered seat out of doors is called an alcove. But this is rather an elaborate one. The marble pillars are of fine design, and the whole thing is beautifully proportioned.”

“Is it very old?”

“Yes, older than the house. You know the Cromartys have lived on this estate for several hundred years. But the original house was destroyed by fire, or nearly so, and the present house was built on the old foundations about the middle of the seventeenth century. If you’re interested in these things, there are lots of books in the library, telling all about the history of the place.”

“Indeed I am interested, and I shall look up the books, if you’ll tell me what they are. Is there any legend or tradition connected with the place?”

“No. We have no ghosts at Cromarty Manor. We’ve always been a peaceful sort, except that my great uncle quarrelled with my grandfather.”

“Mrs. Cromarty’s husband?”

“Yes. He was Roger Cromarty—grandfather was, I mean—and he had a brother Marmaduke. They were both high-tempered, and Marmaduke after an unusually fierce quarrel left home and went to India. But have you never heard the story of the Cromarty Fortune?”

“No, I never have. Is it a sad story? Would you rather not tell me?”

“Why, no; it isn’t a sad story, except that the conditions are rather sad for us. But there’s no reason in the world why you shouldn’t hear it, if you care to. Indeed, I supposed Mabel had already told it you.”

“No, she never did. Will you?”

“Yes. But not here. Let us go in, and get the family all together, and we’ll give you a dramatic recital of the Great Cromarty Mystery.”

“Oh, is it a mystery story? How delightful. I love a mystery.”

“I’m glad you do, but I assure you I wish it wasn’t a mystery.”

“Will it never be solved?”

“I fear not, now. But let us go back to the house, and tell the tale as it should be told.”

They found that the others had already gone into the house, and were gathered round the big table that stood in the middle of the living room. As they joined the group, Sinclair said:

“Before we play games this evening, we are going to tell Patty the story of Uncle Marmaduke’s money.”

Patty was surprised to note the different expressions on her friends’ faces. Mabel seemed to shrink into herself, as if in embarrassment or sensitiveness. Mrs. Cromarty looked calmly proud, and Mrs. Hartley smiled a little.

But Bob laughed outright, and said:

“Good! I’ll help; we’ll all help, and we’ll touch up the tale until it has all the dramatic effect of a three-volume novel.”

“It won’t need touching up,” said Sinclair. “Just the plain truth is story enough of itself.”

“You begin it, Grandy,” said Bob, “and then, when your imagination gives out, I’ll take a hand at it.”

The old lady smiled.

“It needs no imagination, Robert,” she said; “if Patty cares to hear of our family misfortune, I’m quite willing to relate the tale.”

“Oh, I didn’t know it was a misfortune,” cried Patty. “I thought it was a mystery story.”

“It’s both,” said Mrs. Cromarty, “but if the mystery could be solved, it would be no misfortune.”

“That sounds like an enigma,” observed Patty.

“It’s all an enigma,” said Bob. “Go ahead, Grandy.”

“The story begins,” said Mrs. Cromarty, “with my marriage to Roger Cromarty. I was wed in the year 1855. My husband and I were happy during the first few years of our married life. He was the owner of this beautiful place, which had been in his family for many generations. My daughter, Emmeline, was born here, and when she was a child she filled the old house with her happy laughter and chatter. My husband had a brother, Marmaduke, with whom he was not on good terms. Before my marriage, this brother had left home, and gone to India. My husband held no communication with him, but we sometimes heard indirectly from him, and reports always said that he was amassing great wealth in some Indian commerce.”

“Is that his portrait?” asked Patty, indicating a painting of a fine-looking man in the prime of life.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Cromarty. “But the picture represents him as looking amiable, whereas he was always cross, grumpy, and irritable.”

“Like me,” commented Bob.

“No,” said his mother, “I’m thankful to say that none of you children show the slightest signs of Uncle Marmaduke’s disposition. I was only fifteen years old when he died, but I shall never forget his scowling face and angry tones.”

“Was he always cross?” asked Patty, amazed that any one could be invariably ill-tempered.

“Always,” said Mrs. Cromarty. “At least, whenever he was here. I never saw him elsewhere.”

“Go back, Grandy; you’re getting ahead of your story.”

“Well, I tried my best to bring about a reconciliation between the two brothers, but both were proud and a bit stubborn. I could not persuade my husband to write to Marmaduke, and though I wrote to him myself, my letters were torn up, and the scraps returned to me.”

“Lovely old gentleman!” commented Bob. “I’m glad my manners are at least better than that!”

“At last, my husband, Mr. Roger Cromarty, became very ill. I knew he could not recover, and wrote Marmaduke to that effect. To my surprise, I received a grim, but fairly polite letter, saying that he would leave India at once, and hoped to reach his brother’s bedside in time for a reconciliation.”

“And did he?” asked Patty, breathlessly.

“Yes, but that was all. My husband was dying when his brother came. They made peace, however, and arranged some business matters.”

“Oh,” cried Patty, “how glad you must have been that he did not come too late. What a comfort all these years, to know that they did make up their quarrel.”

“Yes, indeed,” assented Mrs. Cromarty. “But I have talked all I can. Emmeline, you may take up the narrative.”

“I’ll tell a little,” said Mrs. Hartley, smiling; “but I shall soon let Sinclair continue. We all know this tale by heart, but only Sinclair can do full justice to the mysterious part of it. I was only ten years old when my father died, and Uncle Marmaduke came here to live. It changed the whole world for me. Where before all had been happiness and love, now all was unkindness and fear. None of us dared cross Uncle Marmaduke, for his fiery anger was something not to be endured. And beside being bad-tempered, he was erratic. He did most peculiar things, without any reason in them whatever. Altogether, he was a most difficult man to live with. But at my father’s death he owned this estate, and we had to live with him or go homeless. He had plenty of money, and he repaired and restored much about the place. But even in this he was erratic. He would have masons in to renew the crumbling plaster and brickwork in the cellars, while the drawing-room furniture could go ragged and forlorn. He spent his money freely for anything he wanted himself, but was niggardly toward mother and myself. However, he always told us that at his death we should inherit his wealth. The estate, also, he willed to mother. He lived with us for about five years, and then was killed by a fall from his horse. I was a girl of fifteen then, and when he was brought in, mangled and almost dead, he called for me. I went to his bedside, trembling, for even then I feared he was going to scold me. But he could only speak in hesitating, disjointed sentences. It was with difficulty I gathered that he was trying to give me some information about his fortune. I wish now I had tried to help him tell me; but at that time it seemed heartless to think of such things when the poor man was dying, and I soothed him, and begged him not to try to talk, when it was such an exertion.”

“Oh, Mother,” wailed Bob, “if you’d only listened, instead of talking yourself!”

Mrs. Hartley smiled, as if she were used to such comments at this part of the story.

“Well,” she said, “I think Sinclair may take up the recital here. That is, if you’re interested, Patty?”

“If I’m interested! Indeed I am! It’s very exciting, and I want it all now; no ‘continued in our next.’”

“We don’t know the end, ourselves,” said Mabel, with such a wistful look in her eyes that Patty went over and sat by her, and with her arm round her listened to the rest of the story.

“Well, then,” said Sinclair, in his grave, kindly voice, “Uncle Marmaduke tried very hard to communicate to mother and Grandy something about his fortune. But his accident had somehow paralysed his throat, and he could scarcely articulate. But for an hour or more, as he lay dying, he would look at them with piercing glances, and say what sounded like dickens! gold!”

“Did he mean gold money?” asked Patty, impulsively.

“They didn’t know, then. But they thought at the time that dickens! was one of his angry expletives, as he was given to such language. The gold, they felt sure, referred to his fortune, which he had always declared he would leave to Grandmother. Then he died, without being able to say any other except those two words, gold and dickens.”

“He might have meant Charles Dickens,” suggested Patty, who dearly loved to guess at a puzzle.

“As it turned out, he did,” said Sinclair, serenely; “but that’s ahead of the story.”

“And, too,” said Mrs. Hartley, “the way in which he finally articulated the word, by a great effort, and after many attempts, was so—so explosive, that it sounded like an ejaculation far more than like a noted author.”

“Years went by,” continued Sinclair, “and Grandy and mother were left with the old Cromarty estate, and nothing to keep it up with.”

“We had a small income, my boy,” said his grandmother.

“Yes, but not enough to keep the place as it should be kept. However, no trace could be found of Uncle Marmaduke’s money. He was generally supposed to have brought a large fortune home from India, but it seemed to have vanished into thin air. His private papers and belongings showed no records of stocks or bonds, no bank books, and save for a small amount of ready money he had by him, he seemed to be penniless. Of course, he wasn’t; the way he had lived, and the money he had spent indicated that he had a fortune somewhere; and, too, there was his promise to leave it to Grandy. Of course, the conclusion was that he had hidden this fortune.”

“A hidden fortune!” exclaimed Patty, blissfully. “Oh, what a lovely mystery! Why, you couldn’t have a better one!”

“I think a discovered fortune would be far better,” said Mabel, and Patty clasped her friend’s hand in sympathy.

“At last,” said Sinclair, “a very bright lawyer had a glimmering of an idea that Uncle Marmaduke’s last words had some meaning to them. He inquired of the ladies of the house, and learned that the late Mr. Marmaduke had been exceedingly fond of reading Dickens, and that he was greatly attached to his own well-worn set of the great author’s works. ‘Ah, ha!’ said the very bright lawyer. ‘Between those well-thumbed pages, we will find many Bank of England notes, or certificates of valuable stocks!’ They flew to the library, and thoroughly searched all the volumes of the set. And what do you think they found?”

“Nothing,” said Patty, wagging her head solemnly.

“Exactly that! Save for a book-marker here and there, the volumes held nothing but their own immortal stories. ‘Foiled again!’ hissed the very bright lawyer. But he kept right on being foiled, and still no hoard of securities was found.”

“But what about the gold?” said Patty. “They didn’t expect to find gold coins in Dickens’ books?”

“No, but they fondly hoped they’d find a mysterious paper in cryptogram, like the ‘Gold Bug,’ you know, telling them to go out in the dark of the moon, and dig north by northwest under the old apple tree.”

“Don’t try to be funny, Clair,” put in Bob; “go on with the yarn. You’re telling it well to-night.”

“And then,” said Sinclair, looking from one to another of his interested hearers, “and then the years rolled by until the fair maiden, Emmeline Cromarty, was of sufficient age to have suitors for her lily-white hand. As we can well believe, after a mere glance in her direction, she was the belle of the whole countryside. Brave gallants from far and near came galloping into the courtyard, and dismounting in feverish, haste, cried, ‘What ho! is the radiant Emmeline within?’ Then the old warden with his clanking keys admitted them, and they stood in rows, that the coquettish damsel might make a selection.”

“How ridiculous you are, Sinclair!” said his mother, smiling. “Can’t you omit that part?”

“Nay, nay, fair lady. And so, it came to pass, that among the shoals of suitors was one who was far more brave and strong and noble than all the rest. Edgar Hartley——”

Sinclair’s voice broke a little as he spoke the name of his revered father. But hiding his emotion, he went on.

“Edgar Hartley wooed and won Emmeline Cromarty, and in the beautiful June of 1880 they were wed and merrily rang the bells. Now while Edgar Hartley was by no means wealthy, he had a fair income, and the fortunes of Cromarty Manor improved. The young couple took up their abode here, and the Dowager Duchess of Cromarty lived with them.”

“I’m not a Duchess,” interposed Mrs. Cromarty, in her calm way.

“You ought to have been, Grandy,” declared Bob. “You look the part, and I’m sure there’s a missing title somewhere that belongs to you. Perhaps Uncle Marmaduke concealed it with the rest of his fortune.”

“No, dear boy; we are not titled people. But the Cromartys are an old family, and much beloved and respected by all the country round.”

“We are so!” declared Bob, with great enthusiasm.