"And may I come again soon?" he asked.

"As often as you wish," she answered. "You have the advantage of proximity, at least."



VI

CONFIDENCE AND SCRUPLES

The next month, to Croyden, went pleasantly enough. He was occupied with getting the household machinery to run according to his ideas—and still retain Moses and Josephine, who, he early discovered, were invaluable to him; in meeting the people worth knowing in the town and vicinity, and in being entertained, and entertaining—all very quietly and without ostentation.

He had dined, or supped, or played Bridge at all the houses, had given a few small things himself, and ended by paying off all scores with a garden party at Clarendon, which Mrs. Carrington had managed for him with exquisite taste (and, to him, amazing frugality)—and, more wonderful still, with an entire effacement of self. It was Croyden's party throughout, though her hand was at the helm, her brain directed—and Hampton never knew.

And the place had looked attractive; with the house set in its wide sweep of velvety lawn amid great trees and old-fashioned flowers and hedges. With the furniture cleaned and polished, the old china scattered in cupboard and on table, the portraits and commissions freshly dusted, the swords glistening as of yore.

And in that month, Croyden had come to like Hampton immensely. The absence, in its society, of all attempts at show, to make-believe, to impress, to hoodwink, was refreshingly novel to him, who, hitherto, had known it only as a great sham, a huge affectation, with every one striving to outdo everyone else, and all as hollow as a rotten gourd.

He had not got used, however, to the individual espionage of the country town—the habit of watching one's every movement, and telling it, and drawing inferences therefrom—inferences tinctured according to the personal feelings of the inferer.

He learned that, in three weeks, they had him "taken" with every eligible girl in town, engaged to four and undecided as to two more. They busied themselves with his food,—they nosed into his drinks, his cigars, his cigarettes, his pipes,—they bothered themselves about his meal hours,—they even inspected his wash when it hung on the line! Some of them, that is. The rest were totally different; they let every one alone. They did not intrude nor obtrude—they went their way, and permitted every one to go his.

So much had been the way of Northumberland, so much he had been used to always. But—and here was the difference from Northumberland, the vital difference, indeed—they were interested in you, if you wished them to be—and it was genuine interest, not pretense. This, and the way they had treated him as one of them, because Colonel Duval had been his father's friend, made Croyden feel very much at home.

At intervals, he had taken old Parmenter's letter from its secret drawer, and studied it, but he had been so much occupied with getting acquainted, that he had done nothing else. Moreover, there was no pressing need for haste. If the treasure had kept on Greenberry Point for one hundred and ninety years, it would keep a few months longer. Besides, he was a bit uncertain whether or not he should confide in someone, Captain Carrington or Major Borden. He would doubtless need another man to help him, even if the location should be easily determined, which, however, was most unlikely. For him, alone, to go prying about on Greenberry Point, would surely occasion comment and arouse suspicion—which would not be so likely if there were two of them, and especially if one were a well-known resident of Maryland.

He finally determined, however, to go across to Annapolis and look over the ground, before he disclosed the secret to any one. Which was the reasonable decision.

When he came to look up the matter of transportation, however, he was surprised to find that no boat ran between Annapolis and Hampton—or any other port on the Eastern Shore. He either had to go by water to Baltimore (which was available on only three days a week) and thence finish his journey by rail or transfer to another boat, or else he had to go by steam cars north to Wilmington, and then directly south again to Annapolis. In either case, a day's journey between two towns that were almost within seeing distance of each other, across the Bay. Of the two, he chose to go by boat to Baltimore.

Then, the afternoon of the day before it sailed, he received a wire—delivered two hours and more after its receipt, in the leisurely fashion of the Eastern Shore. It was from Macloud, and dated Philadelphia.

"Can I come down to-night? Answer to Bellevue-Stratford."

His reply brought Macloud in the morning train.

Croyden met him at the station. Moses took his bag, and they walked out to Clarendon.

"Sorry I haven't a car!" said Croyden—then he laughed. "The truth is, Colin, they're not popular down here. The old families won't have them—they're innovations—the saddle horse and the family carriage are still to the fore with them. Only the butcher, and the baker and the candlestick maker have motors. There's one, now—he's the candlestick maker, I think. This town is nothing if not conservative. It reminds me of the one down South, where they wouldn't have electric cars. Finally all the street car horses died. Then rather than commit the awful sin of letting new horses come into the city, they accepted the trolley. The fashion suits my pocketbook, however, so I've no kick coming."

"What do you want with a car here, anyway?" Macloud asked. "It looks as if you could walk from one end of the town to the other in fifteen minutes."

"You can, easily."

"And the baker et cetera have theirs only for show, I suppose?"

"Yes, that's about it—the roads, hereabout, are sandy and poor."

"Then, I'm with your old families. They may be conservative, at times a trifle too much so, but, in the main, their judgment's pretty reliable, according to conditions. What sort of place did you find—I mean the house?"

"Very fair!"

"And the society?"

"Much better than Northumberland."

"Hum—I see—the aristocracy of birth, not dollars."

"Exactly!—How do you do, Mr. Fitzhugh," as they passed a policeman in uniform.

"Good morning, Mr. Croyden!" was the answer.

"There! that illustrates," said Croyden. "You meet Fitzhugh every place when he is off duty. He belongs. His occupation does not figure, in the least."

"So you like it—Hampton, I mean?" said Macloud.

"I've been here a month—and that month I've enjoyed—thoroughly enjoyed. However, I do miss the Clubs and their life."

"I can understand," Macloud interjected.

"And the ability to get, instantly, anything you want——"

"Much of which you don't want—and wouldn't get, if you had to write for it, or even to walk down town for it—which makes for economy," observed Macloud sententiously.

"But, more than either, I miss the personal isolation which one can have in a big town, when he wishes it—and has always, in some degree."

"And that gets on your nerves!" laughed Macloud. "Well, you won't mind it after a while, I think. You'll get used to it, and be quite oblivious. Is that all your objections?"

"I've been here only a short time, remember. Come back in six months, say, and I may have kicks in plenty."

"You may find it a bit dreary in winter—who the deuce is that girl yonder, Geoffrey?" he broke off.

They were opposite Carrington's, and down the walk toward the gate was coming the maid of the blue-black hair, and slender ankles. She wore a blue linen gown, a black hat, and her face was framed by a white silk parasol.

"That is Miss Carrington," said Croyden.

"Hum!—Your house near here?"

"Yes—pretty near."

Macloud looked at him with a grin.

"She has nothing to do with your liking the town, I suppose?" he said, knowingly.

"Well, she's not exactly a deterrent—and there are half a dozen more of the same sort. Oh, on that score, Hampton's not half bad, my friend!" he laughed.

"You mean there are half a dozen of that sort," with a slight jerk of his head toward Miss Carrington, "who are unmarried?"

Croyden nodded—then looked across; and both men raised their hats and bowed.

"And how many married?" Macloud queried.

"Several—but you let them alone—it's not fashionable here, as yet, for a pretty married woman to have an affair. She loves her husband, or acts it, at least. They're neither prudes nor prigs, but they are not that."

"So far as you know!" laughed Macloud. "But my experience has been that the pretty married woman who won't flirt, if occasion offers where there is no danger of being compromised, is a pretty scarce article. However, Hampton may be an exception."

"You're too cynical," said Croyden. "We turn in here—this is Clarendon."

"Why! you beggar!" Macloud exclaimed. "I've been sympathizing with you, because I thought you were living in a shack-of-a-place—and, behold!"

"Yes, it is not bad," said Croyden. "I've no ground for complaint, on that head. I can, at least, be comfortable here. It's not bad inside, either."

That evening, after dinner, when the two men were sitting in the library while a short-lived thunder storm raged outside, Macloud, after a long break in the conversation—which is the surest sign of camaraderie among men—observed, apropos of nothing except the talk of the morning:

"Lord! man, you've got no kick coming!"

"Who said I had?" Croyden demanded.

"You did, by damning it with faint praise."

"Damning what?"

"Your present environment—and yet, look you! A comfortable house, fine grounds, beautiful old furnishings, delicious victuals, and two negro servants, who are devoted to you, or the place—no matter which, for it assures their permanence; the one a marvelous cook, the other a competent man; and, by way of society, a lot of fine, old antebellum families, with daughters like the Symphony in Blue, we saw this morning. God! you're hard to please."

"And that is not all," said Croyden, laughing and pointing to the portraits. "I've got ancestors—by purchase."

"And you have come by them clean-handed, which is rare.—Moreover, I fancy you are one who has them by inheritance, as well."

Croyden nodded. "I'm glad to say I have—ancestors are distinctly fashionable down here. But that's not all I've got."

"There is only one thing more—money," said Macloud. "You haven't found any of it down here, have you?"

"That is just what I don't know," Croyden replied, tossing away his cigarette, and crossing to the desk by the window. "It depends—on this." He handed the Parmenter letter to Macloud. "Read it through—the endorsements last, in their order—and then tell me what you think of it."...

"These endorsements, I take it," said Macloud, "though without date and signed only with initials, were made by the original addressee, Marmaduke Duval, his son, who was presumably Daniel Duval, and Daniel Duval's son, Marmaduke; the rest, of course, is plain."

"That is correct," Croyden answered. "I have made inquiries—Colonel Duval's father was Marmaduke, whose son was Daniel, whose son was Marmaduke, the addressee."

"Then why isn't it true?" Macloud demanded.

"My dear fellow, I'm not denying it! I simply want your opinion—what to do?"

"Have you shown this letter to anyone else?"

"No one."

"Well, you're a fool to show it even to me. What assurance have you that, when I leave here, I won't go straight to Annapolis and steal your treasure?"

"No assurance, except a lamblike trust in your friendship," said Croyden, with an amused smile.

"Your recent experience with Royster & Axtell and the Heights should beget confidences of this kind?" he said sarcastically, tapping the letter the while. "You trust too much in friendship, Croyden. Tests of half a million dollars aren't human!" Then he grinned. "I always thought there was something God-like about me. So, maybe, you're safe. But it was a fearful risk, man, a fearful risk!" He looked at the letter again. "Sure, it's true! The man to whom it was addressed believed it—else why did he endorse it to his son? And we can assume that Daniel Duval knew his father's writing, and accepted it.—Oh, it's genuine enough. But to prove it, did you identify Marmaduke Duval's writing—any papers or old letters in the house?"

"I don't know," returned Croyden. "I'll ask Moses to-morrow."

"Better not arouse his curiosity—darkies are most inquisitive, you know—where did you find the letter?"

Croyden showed him the secret drawer.

"Another proof of its genuineness," said Macloud. "Have you made any effort to identify this man Parmenter—from the records at Annapolis."

"No—I've done nothing but look at the letter—except to trace the Duval descent," Croyden replied.

"He speaks, here, of his last will and testament being left with Mr. Dulany. If it were probated, that will establish Parmenter, especially if Marmaduke Duval is the legatee. What do you know of Annapolis?"

"Nothing! I never was there—I looked it up on the map I found, here, and Greenberry Point is as the letter says—across the Severn River from it."

Macloud laughed, in good-natured raillery.

"You seem to have been in a devil of a hurry!" he said. "At the same rate of progression, you will go to Annapolis some time next spring, and get over to Greenberry Point about autumn."

"On the contrary, it's your coming that delayed me," Croyden smiled. "But for your wire, I would have started this morning—now, if you will accompany me, we'll go day-after-to-morrow."

"Why delay?" said Macloud. "Why not go to-night?"

"It's a long journey around the Bay by rail—I'd rather cross to Baltimore by boat; from there it's only an hour's ride to Annapolis by electric cars. And there isn't any boat sailing until day-after-to-morrow."

"Where's the map?" said Macloud. "Let me see where we are, and where Annapolis is.... Hum! we're almost opposite! Can't we get a boat in the morning to take us across direct—charter it, I mean? The Chesapeake isn't wide at this point—a sailing vessel ought to make it in a few hours."

"I'll go you!" exclaimed Croyden. He went to the telephone and called up Dick. "This is Geoffrey Croyden!" he said.—"I've a friend who wants to go across the Bay to Annapolis, in the morning. Where can I find out if there is a sailing vessel, or a motor boat, obtainable?... what's that you say?... Miles Casey?—on Fleet Street, near the wharf?... Thank you!—He says," turning to Macloud, "Casey will likely take us—he has a fishing schooner and it is in port. He lives on Fleet Street—we will walk down, presently, and see him."

Macloud nodded assent, and fell to studying the directions again. Croyden returned to his chair and smoked in silence, waiting for his friend to conclude. At length, the latter folded the letter and looked up.

"It oughtn't to be hard to find," he observed.

"Not if the trees are still standing, and the Point is in the same place," said Croyden. "But we're going to find the Point shifted about ninety degrees, and God knows how many feet, while the trees will have long since disappeared."

"Or the whole Point may be built over with houses!" Macloud responded. "Why not go the whole throw-down at once—make it impossible to recover rather than only difficult to locate!" He made a gesture of disbelief. "Do you fancy that the Duvals didn't keep an eye on Greenberry Point?—that they wouldn't have noted, in their endorsements, any change in the ground? So it's clear, in my mind, that, when Colonel Duval transferred this letter to you, the Parmenter treasure could readily be located."

"I'm sure I shan't object, in the least, if we walk directly to the spot, and hit the box on the third dig of the pick!" laughed Croyden. "But let us forget the old pirate, until to-morrow; tell me about Northumberland—it seems a year since I left! When one goes away for good and all, it's different, you know, from going away for the summer."

"And you think you have left it for good and all?" asked Macloud, blowing a smoke-ring and watching him with contemplative eyes—"Well, the place is the same—only more so. A good many people have come back. The Heights is more lively than when you left, teas, and dinners, and tournaments and such like.—In town, the Northumberland's resuming its regulars—the theatres are open, and the Club has taken the bald-headed row on Monday nights as usual. Billy Cain has turned up engaged, also as usual—this time, it's a Richmond girl, 'regular screamer,' he says. It will last the allotted time, of course—six weeks was the limit for the last two, you'll remember. Smythe put it all over Little in the tennis tournament, and 'Pud' Lester won the golf championship. Terry's horse, Peach Blossom, fell and broke its neck in the high jump, at the Horse Show; Terry came out easier—he broke only his collar-bone. Mattison is the little bounder he always was—a month hasn't changed him—except for the worse. Hungerford is a bit sillier. Colloden is the same bully fellow; he is disconsolate, now, because he is beginning to take on flesh." Whereat both laughed. "Danridge is back from the North Cape, via Paris, with a new drink he calls The Spasmodic—it's made of gin, whiskey, brandy, and absinthe, all in a pint of sarsaparilla. He says it's great—I've not sampled it, but judging from those who have he is drawing it mild.... Betty Whitridge and Nancy Wellesly have organized a Sinners Class, prerequisites for membership in which are that you play Bridge on Sundays and have abstained from church for at least six months. It's limited to twenty. They filled it the first morning, and have a waiting list of something over seventy-five.... That is about all I can think of that's new."

"Has any one inquired about me?" Croyden asked—with the lingering desire one has not to be forgot.

Macloud shot a questioning glance at him.

"Beyond the fact that the bankruptcy schedules show you were pretty hard hit, I've heard no one comment," he said. "They think you're in Europe. Elaine Cavendish is sponsor for that report—she says you told her you were called, suddenly, abroad."

Croyden nodded. Then, after a pause:

"Any one inclined to play the devoted, there?" he asked.

"Plenty inclined—plenty anxious," replied Macloud. "I'm looking a bit that way myself—I may get into the running, since you are out of it," he added.

Croyden made as though to speak, then bit off the words.

"Yes, I'm out of it," he said shortly.

"But you're not out of it—if you find the pirate's treasure."

"Wait until I find it—at present, I'm only an 'also ran.'"

"Who had the field, however, until withdrawn," said Macloud.

"Maybe!" Croyden laughed. "But things have changed with me, Macloud; I've had time for thought and meditation. I'm not sure I should go back to Northumberland, even if the Parmenter jewels are real. Had I stayed there I suppose I should have taken my chance with the rest, but I'm becoming doubtful, recently, of giving such hostages to fortune. It's all right for a woman to marry a rich man, but it is a totally different proposition for a poor man to marry a rich woman. Even with the Parmenter treasure, I'd be poor in comparison with Elaine Cavendish and her millions—and I'm afraid the sweet bells would soon be jangling out of tune."

"Would you condemn the girl to spinsterhood, because there are few men in Northumberland, or elsewhere, who can match her in wealth?"

"Not at all! I mean, only, that the man should be able to support her according to her condition in life.—In other words, pay all the bills, without drawing on her fortune."

"Those views will never make you the leader of a popular propaganda!" said Macloud, with an amused smile. "In fact, you're alone in the woods."

"Possibly! But the views are not irrevocable—I may change, you know. In the meantime, let us go down to Fleet Street and interview Casey. And then, if you're good, I'll take you to call on Miss Carrington."

"The Symphony in Blue!" exclaimed Macloud. "Come along, man, come along!"



VII

GREENBERRY POINT

There was no trouble with Casey—he had been mighty glad to take them. And, at about noon of the following day, they drew in to the ancient capital, having made a quick and easy run from Hampton.

It was clear, bright October weather, when late summer seems to linger for very joy of staying, and all nature is in accord. The State House, where Washington resigned his commission—with its chaste lines and dignified white dome, when viewed from the Bay (where the monstrosity of recent years that has been hung on behind, is not visible) stood out clearly in the sunlight, standing high above the town, which slumbers, in dignified ease, within its shadow. A few old mansions, up the Spa, seen before they landed, with the promise of others concealed among the trees, higher up, told their story of a Past departed—a finished city.

"Where is Greenberry Point?" demanded Macloud, suddenly.

"Yonder, sir, on the far side of the Severn—the strip of land which juts out into the Bay."

"First hypothesis, dead as a musket!" looking at Croyden. "There isn't a house in sight—except the light-house, and it's a bug-light."

"No houses—but where are the trees?" Croyden returned. "It seems pretty low," he said, to the skipper; "is it ever covered with water?"

"I think not, sir—the water's just eating it slowly away."

Croyden nodded, and faced townward.

"What is the enormous white stone building, yonder?" he asked.

"The Naval Academy—that's only one of the buildings, sir, Bancroft Hall. The whole Academy occupies a great stretch of land along the Severn."

They landed at the dock, at the foot of Market Place and inquired the way to Carvel Hall—that being the hotel advised by Dick. They were directed up Wayman's alley—one of the numerous three foot thoroughfares between streets, in which the town abounds—to Prince George Street, and turning northward on it for a block, past the once splendid Brice house, now going slowly to decay, they arrived at the hotel:—the central house of English brick with the wings on either side, and a modern hotel building tacked on the rear.

"Rather attractive!" was Macloud's comment, as they ascended the steps to the brick terrace and, thence, into the hotel. "Isn't this an old residence?" he inquired of the clerk, behind the desk.

"Yes, sir! It's the William Paca (the Signer) mansion, but it served as the home of Dorothy Manners in Richard Carvel, and hence the name, sir: Carvel Hall. We've many fine houses here: the Chase House—he also was a Signer; the Harwood House, said to be one of the most perfect specimens of Colonial architecture in America; the Scott House, on the Spa; the Brice House, next door; McDowell Hall, older than any of them, was gutted by fire last year, but has been restored; the Ogle mansion—he was Governor in the 1740's, I think. Oh! this was the Paris of America before and during the Revolution. Why, sir, the tonnage of the Port of Annapolis, in 1770, was greater than the tonnage of the Port of Baltimore, to-day."

"Very interesting!" said Macloud. "Very interesting, indeed. What's happened to it since 1770?"

"Nothing, sir—that's the trouble, it's progressed backward—and Baltimore has taken its place."

"I see!" said Macloud, laughing. "What time is luncheon?"

"It's being served now, sir—twelve-thirty to two."

"Order a pair of saddle horses, and have them around at one-thirty, please."

"There is no livery connected with the hotel, sir, but I'll do what I can. There isn't any saddlers for hire, but we will get you a pair of 'Cheney's Best,' sir—they're sometimes ridden. However, you had better drive, if you will permit me to suggest, sir."

Croyden glanced at Macloud.

"No!—we will try the horses," he said.

It had been determined that they should ride for the reasons, as urged by Macloud, that they could go on horseback where they could not in a conveyance, and they would be less likely to occasion comment. The former of which appealed to Croyden, though the latter did not.

Macloud had borrowed an extra pair of riding breeches and puttees, from his friend, and, at the time appointed, the two men passed through the office.

"The horses are waiting, sir!" the clerk informed them.

Two negro lads were holding a pair of rawboned nags, that resembled saddlers about as much as a cigar-store Indian does a sonata. Croyden looked them over in undisguised disgust.

"If these are Cheney's Best," he commented, "what in Heaven's name are his worst?"

"Come on!" said Macloud, adjusting the stirrups. "Get aboard and leave the kicking to the horses, they may be better than they look. Where does one cross the Severn?" he asked a man who was passing.

"Straight up to the College green," he replied, pointing; "then one square to the right to King George Street, and on out it, across College Creek, to the Marine Barracks. The road forks there; you turn to the right; and the bridge is at the foot of the hill."

They thanked him, and rode away.

"He ought to write a guide book," said Croyden.

"How do you know he hasn't?" Macloud retorted. "Well paved streets,—but a trifle hard for riding."

"And more than a trifle dirty," Croyden added. "My horse isn't so bad—how's yours?"

"He'll do!—This must be the Naval Academy," as they passed along a high brick wall—"Yonder, are the Barracks—the Marines are drilling in front."

They clattered over the creek, rounded the quarters of the "Hermaphrodites," and saw below them the wide bridge, almost a half a mile long, which spans the Severn. The draw was open, to let a motor boat pass through, but it closed before they reached it.

"This is exceptionally pretty!" Macloud exclaimed, drawing rein, midway. "Look at the high bluff, on the farther shore, with the view up the river, on one side, and down the Bay, and clear across on the other.... Now," as they wound up on the hill, "for the first road to the right."

"This doesn't look promising!" laughed Croyden, as the road swung abruptly westward and directly away from Greenberry Point.

"Let us go a little farther," said Macloud. "There must be a way—a bridle path, if nothing better—and, if we must, we can push straight through the timber; there doesn't seem to be any fences. You see, it was rational to ride."

"You're a wise old owl!" Croyden retorted.

"Ah!—there's our road!" as one unexpectedly took off to the right, among the trees, and bore almost immediately eastward. "Come along, my friend!"

Presently they were startled by a series of explosions, a short distance ahead.

"What are we getting into?" Macloud exclaimed, drawing up sharply.

"Parmenter's defending his treasure!" said Croyden, with mock seriousness. "He is warning us off."

"A long way off, then! We must be a mile and more from the Point. It's some one blasting, I think."

"It wasn't sufficiently muffled," Croyden answered.

They waited a few moments: hearing no further noises, they proceeded—a trifle cautiously, however. A little further on, they came upon a wood cutter.

"He doesn't appear at all alarmed," Croyden observed. "What were the explosions, a minute ago?" he called.

"They weren't nothing," said the man, leaning on his axe. "The Navy's got a 'speriment house over here. They're trying things. Yer don't need be skeered. If yer goin' to the station, it's just a little ways, now," he added, with the country-man's curiosity—which they did not satisfy.

They passed the buildings of the Experiment Station and continued on, amid pine and dogwood, elms and beeches. They were travelling parallel with the Severn, and not very distant, as occasional glimpses of blue water, through the trees, revealed. Gradually, the timber thinned. The river became plainly visible with the Bay itself shimmering to the fore. Then the trees ended abruptly, and they came out on Greenberry Point: a long, flat, triangular-shaped piece of ground, possibly two hundred yards across the base, and three hundred from base to point.

The two men halted, and looked around.

"Somewhere near here, possibly just where your horse is standing, is the treasure," said Macloud. "Can't you feel its presence?"

"No, I can't!" laughed Croyden, "and that appears to be my only chance, for I can't see a trace of the trees which formed the square."

"Be not cast down!" Macloud admonished. "Remember, you didn't expect to find things marked off for you."

"No, I didn't! but I thought you did."

"That was only to stir you up. I anticipated even more adverse conditions. It's amazingly easier than I dared to hope."

"Thunder! man! we can't dig six feet deep over all of forty acres. We shall have the whole of Annapolis over to help us before we've done a square of forty feet."

"You're too liberal!" laughed Macloud. "Twenty feet would be ample." Then he sobered. "The instructions say: seven hundred and fifty feet back, from the extreme tip of Greenberry Point, is the quadrangle of trees. That was in 1720, one hundred and ninety years ago. They must have been of good size then—hence, they would be of the greater size, now, or else have disappeared entirely. There isn't a single tree which could correspond with Parmenter's, closer than four hundred yards, and, as the point would have been receding rather than gaining, we can assume, with tolerable certainty, that the beeches have vanished—either from decay or from wind storms, which must be very severe over in this exposed land. Hence, must not our first quest be for some trace of the trees?"

"That sounds reasonable," said Croyden, "and, if the Point has receded, which is altogether likely, then we are pretty near the place."

"Yes!—if the Point has simply receded, but if it has shifted laterally, as well, the problem is not so simple."

"Let us go out to the Point, and look at the ruins of the light-house. If we can get near enough to ascertain when it was built, it may help us. Evidently there was none erected here, in Parmenter's time, else he would not have chosen this place to hide his treasure."

But the light-house was a barren yield. It was a crumbling mass of ruins, lying out in water, possibly fifty feet—the real house was a bug-light farther out in the Bay.

"Well, there's no one to see us, so why shouldn't we make a search for the trees?" said Croyden.

"Hold my horse!" said Macloud, dismounting.

He went out on the extreme edge, faced about, and taking a line at right angles to it, stepped two hundred and fifty paces. He ended in sand—and, for another fifty paces, sand—sand unrelieved by aught save some low bushes sparsely scattered here and there.

"Somewhere hereabout, according to present conditions, the trees should be," he said.

"Not very promising," was Croyden's comment.

"Let us assume that the diagonal lines drawn between the trees intersect at this point," Macloud continued, producing a compass. "Then, one hundred and ten paces North-by-North-East is the place we seek."

He stepped the distance carefully—Croyden following with the horses—and sunk his heel into the sand beside a clump of wire grass.

"Here is the old buccaneer's hoard!" he exclaimed, dramatically.

"Shall we dig, immediately?" Croyden laughed.



"You dig—I'll hold the horses; your hands are tougher than mine."

"I wonder who owns this land?" said Croyden, suddenly.

"We can ascertain very readily. You mean, you would try to purchase it?"

"Yes, as a site for a house, ostensibly. I might buy a lot beginning, say one hundred and fifty yards back from the Point, and running, at an even width of two hundred yards, from the Severn to the Bay. That would surely include the treasure."

"A fine idea!" Macloud agreed.

"If the present owner will sell," appended Croyden—"and if his price isn't out of all reason. I can't go much expense, you know."

"Never mind the expense—that can be arranged. If he will sell, the rest is easy. I'll advance it gladly to you."

"And we will share equally, then," said Croyden.

"Bosh!" Macloud answered. "I've got more money than I want, let me have some fun with the excess, Croyden. And this promises more fun than I've had for a year—hunting a buried treasure, within sight of Maryland's capital. Moreover, it won't likely be out of reach of your own pocketbook, this can't be very valuable land." He remounted his horse. "Let us ride around over the intended site, and prospect—we may discover something."

But, though, they searched for an hour, they were utterly unsuccessful. The four beech trees had disappeared as completely as though they never were.

"I'm perfectly confident, however," Macloud remarked as they turned away toward town, "that somewhere, within the lines of your proposed lot, lie the Parmenter jewels. Now, for the lot. Once you have title to it, you may plow up the whole thing to any depth you please, and no one may gainsay you."

"I'm not so sure," replied Croyden. "My knowing that the treasure was on it when purchased, may make me liable to my grantor for an accounting."

"But you don't know!" objected Macloud.

"Yet, I have every reason to believe—the letter is most specific."

"Suppose, after you've paid a big price for the land, you don't find the treasure, could you make him take it back and refund the purchase money?"

"No, most assuredly, no," smiled Croyden.

"Mighty queer doctrine! You must account for what you find—if you don't find it, you must keep the land, anyway. The other fellow wins whatever happens."

"It's predicated on the proposition that I have knowingly deceived him into selling something for nothing. However, I'm not at all clear about it; and we will buy if we can—and take the chances. But we won't go to work with a brass band, old man."

At the top of the hill, beyond the Severn, there was a road which took off to the left.

"This parallels the road by the Marine Barracks, suppose we turn in here," Macloud said. "It probably goes through the Academy grounds."

A little way on, they passed what was evidently a fine hospital, with the United States flag flying over it. Just beyond, occupying the point of land where College Creek empties into the Severn, was the Naval Cemetery.

"Very fitting!" Croyden laughed. "They have the place of interment exceedingly handy to the hospital. What in thunder's that?" he asked, indicating a huge dome, hideously ornate with gold and white, that projected above the trees, some distance ahead.

"Give it up!" said Macloud. "Unless it's a custard-and-cream pudding for the Midshipmen's supper. Awful looking thing, isn't it! Oh! I recollect now: the Government has spent millions in erecting new Academy buildings; and someone in the Navy remarked, 'If a certain chap had to kill somebody, he couldn't see why he hadn't selected the fellow who was responsible for them—his work at Annapolis would have been ample justification.' Judging from the atrocity to our fore, the officer didn't overdraw it."

They took the road along the officers' quarters on Upshur Row, and came out the upper gate into King George Street, thereby missing the Chapel (of the custard-and-cream dome) and all the other Smith buildings.

"We can see them again!" said Croyden. "The real estate agent is more important now."

It was the quiet hour when they got back to the hotel, and the clerk was standing in the doorway, sunning himself.

"Enjoy your ride, sirs?" he asked.

"It wasn't bad," returned Croyden. Then he stopped. "Can you tell me who owns Greenberry Point?"

"Yes, sir! The Government owns it—they bought it for the Rifle Range."

"The whole of it?"

"Yes, sir!—from the Point clear up to the Experiment Station."

Croyden thanked him and passed on.

"That's the end of the purchase idea!" he said. "I thought it was 'most too good to last."

"It got punctured very early," Macloud agreed.

"And the question is, what to do, now? Might the clerk be wrong?"

Macloud shook his head. "There isn't a chance of it. Titles in a small town are known, particularly, when they're in the United States. However, it's easy to verify—we'll hunt up a real estate office—they'll know."

But when they had dressed, and sought a real estate office, the last doubt vanished: it confirmed the clerk.

"If you haven't anything particularly pressing," said Macloud, "I suggest that we remain here for a few days and consider what is best to do."

"My most pressing business is to find the treasure!" Croyden laughed.

"Good! then we're on the job until it's found—if it takes a year or longer." And when Croyden looked his surprise: "I've nothing to do, old chap, and one doesn't have the opportunity to go treasure hunting more than once in a lifetime. Picture our satisfaction when we hear the pick strike the iron box, and see the lid turned back, and the jewels coruscating before us."

"But what if there isn't any coruscating—that's a good word, old man—nor any iron box?"

"Don't be so pessimistic—think we're going to find it, it will help a lot."

"How about if we don't find it?"

"Then, at least, we'll have had a good time in hunting, and have done our best to succeed."

"It's a new thing to hear old cynical Macloud preaching optimism!" laughed Croyden—"our last talk, in Northumberland, wasn't particularly in that line, you'll remember."

"Our talk in Northumberland had to do with other people and conditions. This is an adventure, and has to do solely with ourselves. Some difference, my dear Croyden, some difference! What do you say to an early breakfast to-morrow, and then a walk over to the Point. It's something like your Eastern Shore to get to, however,—just across the river by water, but three miles around by the Severn bridge. We can have the whole day for prospecting."

"I'm under your orders," said Croyden. "You're in charge of this expedition."

They had been passing numerous naval officers in uniform, some well set-up, some slouchy.

"The uniform surely does show up the man for what he is," said Macloud. "Look at these two for instance—from the stripes on the sleeves, a Lieutenant-Commander and a Senior Lieutenant. Did you ever see a real Bowery tough?—they are in that class, with just enough veneer to deceive, for an instant. There, are two others, opposite. They look like soldiers. Observe the dignity, the snappy walk, the inherent air of command."

"Isn't it the fault of the system?" asked Croyden. "Every Congressman holds a competitive examination in his district; and the appointment goes to the applicant who wins—be he what he may. For that reason, I dare say, the Brigade of Midshipmen contains muckers as well as gentlemen—and officers are but midshipmen of a larger growth."

"Just so! and it's wrong—all wrong! To be a commissioned officer, in either Army or Navy, ought to attest one's gentle birth."

"It raises a presumption in their favor, at least."

"Presumption! do you think the two who passed us could hide behind that presumption longer than the fraction of an instant?"

"Don't get excited, old man! I was accounting for it, not defending it. It's a pity, of course, but that's one of the misfortunes of a Republic where all men are equal."

"Rot! damn rot!" Macloud exclaimed. "Men aren't equal!—they're born to different social scales, different intellectualities, different conditions otherwise. For the purpose of suffrage they may, in the theory of our government, be equal—but we haven't yet demonstrated it. We exclude the Japanese and Chinese. We have included the negro, only within the living generation—and it's entirely evident, now, we made a monstrous mistake by doing it. Equal! Equal! Never in this world!"

"How about the next world?" asked Croyden.

"I don't know!" laughed Macloud, as they ascended the steps of the hotel. "For my part, I'm for the Moslem's Paradise and the Houris who attend the Faithful. And, speaking of houris!—see who's here!"

Croyden glanced up—to see Elaine Cavendish and Charlotte Brundage standing in the doorway.



VIII

STOLEN

"This is, truly, a surprise!" Miss Cavendish exclaimed. "Who would ever have thought of meeting you two in this out-of-the-way place."

"Here, too!" replied Macloud.

"When did you return, Geoffrey?" she inquired.

"From abroad?—I haven't gone," said Croyden. "The business still holds me."

She looked at him steadily a moment—Macloud was talking to Miss Brundage.

"How much longer will it hold you?" she asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know—it's difficult of adjustment.—What brings you here, may I inquire?"

"We were in Washington and came over with the Westons to the Officers' Hop to-night—given for the Secretary of something. He's one of the Cabinet. We return in the morning."

"Oh, I see," he answered; the relief in his voice would have missed a less acute ear. "Where are you going now?"

"To a tea at the Superintendent's, when the Westons join us. Come along!"

"I haven't acquired the Washington habit,—yet!" he laughed. "A man at a tea fight! Oh, no!"

"Then go to the dance with us—Colin! you'll go, won't you?"

"Sure!" said Macloud. "I'll follow your voice any place. Where shall it be?"

"To the Hop, to-night."

"We're not invited—if that cuts any figure."

"You'll go in our party. Ah! Mrs. Weston, I've presumed to ask Mr. Macloud and Mr. Croyden to join our party to-night."

"The Admiral and I shall be delighted to have them," Mrs. Weston answered—"Will they also go with us to the tea? No? Well, then, to-night."

Macloud and Croyden accompanied them to the Academy gates, and then returned to the hotel.

In the narrow passage between the news-desk and the office, they bumped, inadvertently, into two men. There were mutual excuses, and the men went on.

An hour or so later, Macloud, having changed into his evening clothes, came into Croyden's room and found him down on his knees looking under the bureau, and swearing vigorously.

"Whee!" he said; "you are a true pirate's heir! Old Parmenter, himself, couldn't do it better. What's the matter—lose something?"

"No, I didn't lose anything!" said Croyden sarcastically. "I'm saying my prayers."

"And incidentally searching for this, I suppose?" picking up a pearl stud from under the bed.

Croyden took it without a word.

"And when you've sufficiently recovered your equanimity," Macloud went on, "you might let me see the aforesaid Parmenter's letter. I want to cogitate over it."

"It's in my wallet!" grinding in the stud—"my coat's on the chair, yonder."

"I don't find it!" said Macloud, searching. "What pocket is it in?"

"The inside breast pocket!" exclaimed Croyden, ramming the last stud home. "Where would you think it is—in the small change pocket?"

"Then suppose you find it for me."

"I'll do it with——" He stopped. "Do you mean it isn't there?" he exclaimed.

"It isn't there!" said Macloud, holding up the coat.

Croyden's fingers flew to the breast pocket—empty! to the other pockets—no wallet! He seized his trousers; then his waistcoat—no wallet.

"My God! I've lost it!" he cried.

"Maybe you left it in Hampton?" said Macloud.

Croyden shook his head. "I had it when we left the Weston party—I felt it in my pocket, as I bent to tie Miss Cavendish's shoe."

"Then, it oughtn't to be difficult to find—it's lost between the Sampson Gate and the hotel. I'm going out to search, possibly in the fading light it has not been noticed. You telephone the office—and then join me, as quickly as you can get into your clothes."

He dashed out and down the stairs into the Exchange, passing midway, with the barest nod, the Weston party, nor pausing to answer the question Miss Cavendish flung after him.

Once on the rear piazza, however, he went slowly down the broad white steps to the broad brick walk—the electric lights were on, and he noted, with keen regret, how bright they made it—and thence to the Sampson Gate. It was vain! He inquired of the guard stationed there, and that, too, proving unavailing, left directions for its return, if found.

"What a misfortune!" he muttered, as he renewed the search. "What a misfortune! If any one reads that letter, the jig is up for us.... Here! boys," to a crowd of noisy urchins, sitting on the coping along the street, "do you want to make a dollar?"

The enthusiasm of the response, not to mention its unanimity, threatened dire disaster to Macloud's toilet.

"Hold on!" he said. "Don't pull me apart. You all can have a chance for it. I've lost a wallet—a pocketbook—between the gate yonder and the hotel. A dollar to the boy who finds it."

With a shout, they set to work. A moment later Croyden came down the walk.

"I haven't got it," Macloud said, answering his look. "I've been over to the gate and back, and now I've put these gamins to work. They will find it, if it's to be found. Did you telephone the office?"

"Nothing doing there!" Croyden answered. "And what's more, there won't be anything doing here—we shall never find the letter, Macloud."

"That's my fear," Macloud admitted. "Somebody's already found it."

"Somebody's stolen it," Croyden answered.

"What?"

"Precisely!—do you recall our being jostled by two men in the narrow corridor of the hotel? Well, then is when I lost my wallet. I am sure of it. I wasn't in a position to drop it from my pocket."

Macloud's hand sought his own breast pocket and stopped.

"I forgot to change, when I dressed. Maybe the other fellow made off with mine. I'll go and investigate—you keep an eye on the boys."

Presently he returned.

"You're right!" he said. "Mine is missing, too. We'll call off the boys."

He flung them some small coins, thereby precipitating a scramble and a fight, and they went slowly in.

"There is just one chance," he continued. "Pickpockets usually abstract the money, instantly, and throw the book and papers away. They want no tell-tale evidence. It may be the case here—they, likely, didn't examine the letter, just saw it was a letter and went no further."

"That won't help us much," said Croyden. "It will be found—it's only a question of the pickpockets or some one else."

"But the some one else may be honest. Your card is in the wallet?"

"With Hampton on it."

"The finder may advertise—may look you up at the hotel—may——"

"May bring it back on a gold salver!" Croyden interjected. "No! No! Colin. Our only hope is that the thief threw away the letter, and that no one finds it until after we have the treasure. The man isn't born who, under the circumstances, will renounce the opportunity for a half million dollars."

"Well, at the worst, we have an even chance! Thank Heaven! We know the directions without the letter. Don't be discouraged, old man—we'll win out, yet."

"I'm not discouraged!" laughed Croyden. "I have never anticipated success. It was sport—an adventure and a problem to work out, nothing more. Now, if we have some one else to combat, so much greater the adventure, and more intricate the problem."

"Shall we notify the police?" Macloud asked. "Or isn't it well to get them into it?"

"I'll confess I don't know. If we could jug the thieves quickly, and recover the plunder, it might be well. On the other hand, they might disclose the letter to the police or to some pal, or try even to treat with us, on the threat of publicity. On the whole, I'm inclined to secrecy—and, if the thieves show up on the Point, to have it out with them. There are only two, so we shall not be overmatched. Moreover, we can be sure they will keep it strictly to themselves, if we don't force their hands by trying to arrest them."

Macloud considered a moment. "I incline to your opinion. We will simply advertise for the wallets to-morrow, as a bluff—and go to work in earnest to find the treasure."

They had entered the hotel again; in the Exchange, the rocking chair brigade and the knocker's club were gathered.

"The usual thing!" Croyden remarked. "Why can't a hotel ever be free of them?"

"Because it's a hotel!" laughed Macloud. "Let's go in to dinner—I'm hungry."

The tall head-waiter received them like a host himself, and conducted them down the room to a small table. A moment later, the Weston party came in, with Montecute Mattison in tow, and were shown to one nearby, with Harvey's most impressive manner.

An Admiral is some pumpkins in Annapolis, when he is on the active list.

Mrs. Weston and the young ladies looked over and nodded; Croyden and Macloud arose and bowed. They saw Miss Cavendish lean toward the Admiral and say a word. He glanced across.

"We would be glad to have you join us," said he, with a man's fine indifference to the fact that their table was, already, scarcely large enough for five.

"I am afraid we should crowd you, sir. Thank you!—we'll join you later, if we may," replied Macloud.

A little time after, they heard Mattison's irritating voice, pitched loud enough to reach them:

"I wonder what Croyden's doing here with Macloud?" he remarked. "I thought you said, Elaine, that he had skipped for foreign parts, after the Royster smash, last September."

"I did say, Mr. Mattison, I thought he had gone abroad, but I most assuredly did not say, nor infer, that he had skipped, nor connect his going with Royster's failure!" Miss Cavendish responded. "If you must say unjust and unkind things, don't make other people responsible for them, please. Shoulder them yourself."

"Good girl!" muttered Macloud. "Hand him another!" Then he shot a look at his friend.

"I don't mind," said Croyden. "They may think what they please—and Mattison's venom is sprinkled so indiscriminately it doesn't hurt. Everyone comes in for a dose."

They dallied through dinner, and finished at the same time as the Westons. Croyden walked out with Miss Cavendish.

"I couldn't help overhearing that remark of Mattison's—the beggar intended that I should," said he—"and I want to thank you, Elaine, for your 'come back' at him."

"I'm sorry I didn't come back harder," said she.

"And if you prefer me not to go with you to the Hop to-night don't hesitate to say so—I'll understand, perfectly. The Westons may have got a wrong impression——"

"The Westons haven't ridden in the same motor, from Washington to Annapolis, with Montecute for nothing; but I'll set you straight, never fear. We are going over in the car—there is room for you both, and Mrs. Weston expects you. We will be down at nine. It's the fashion to go early, here, it seems."

Zimmerman was swinging his red-coated military band through a dreamy, sensuous waltz, as they entered the gymnasium, where the Hops, at the Naval Academy, are held. The bareness of the huge room was gone entirely—concealed by flags and bunting, which hung in brilliant festoons from the galleries and the roof. Myriads of variegated lights flashed back the glitter of epaulet and the gleam of white shoulders, with, here and there, the black of the civilian looking strangely incongruous amid the throng that danced itself into a very kaleidoscope of color.

The Secretary was a very ordinary man, who had a place in the Cabinet as a reward for political deeds done, and to be done. He represented a State machine, nothing more. Quality, temperament, fitness, poise had nothing to do with his selection. His wife was his equivalent, though, superficially, she appeared to better advantage, thanks to a Parisian modiste with exquisite taste, and her fond husband's bottomless bank account.

Having passed the receiving line, the Westons held a small reception of their own. The Admiral was still upon the active list, with four years of service ahead of him. He was to be the next Aide on Personnel, the knowing ones said, and the orders were being looked for every day. Therefore he was decidedly a personage to tie to—more important even than the Secretary, himself, who was a mere figurehead in the Department. And the officers—and their wives, too, if they were married—crowded around the Westons, fairly walking over one another in their efforts to be noticed.

"What's the meaning of it?" Croyden asked Miss Cavendish as they joined the dancing throng. "Are the Westons so amazingly popular?"

"Not at all! they're hailing the rising sun," she said—and explained: "They would do the same if he were a mummy or had small-pox. 'Grease,' they call it."

(The watchword, in the Navy, is "grease." From the moment you enter the Academy, as a plebe, until you have joined the lost souls on the retired list, you are diligently engaged in greasing every one who ranks you and in being greased by every one whom you rank. And the more assiduous and adroit you are at the greasing business, the more pleasant the life you lead. The man who ranks you can, when placed over you, make life a burden or a pleasure as his fancy and his disposition dictate. Consequently the "grease," and the higher the rank the greater the "grease," and the number of "greasers.")

"Well-named!—dirty, smeary, contaminating business," said Croyden. "And the best 'greasers' have the best places, I reckon. I prefer the unadorned garb of the civilian—and independence. I'll permit those fellows to fight the battles and draw the rewards—they can do both very well."

He did not get another dance with her until well toward the end—and would not then, if the lieutenant to whom it belonged had not been a second late—late enough to lose her.

"We are going back to Washington, in the morning," she said. "Can't you come along?"

"Impossible!" he answered. "Much as I'd like to do it."

She looked up at him, quickly.

"Are you sure you would like to do it?" she asked.

"What a question!" he exclaimed.

"Geoffrey!—what is this business which keeps you here—in the East?"

"Business!" he replied, smiling.

"Which means, I must not ask, I suppose."

He did not answer.

"Will you tell me one thing—just one?" she persisted. "Has Royster & Axtell's failure anything to do with it?"

"Yes—it has!" he said, after a moment's hesitation.

"And is it true that you are seriously embarrassed—have lost most of your fortune?"

"It was to be just one question!" he smiled.

"I'm a woman," she explained.

They danced half the length of the room before he replied. He would tell her. She, alone, deserved to know—and, if she cared, would understand.

"I have lost most of my fortune!" he admitted. "I am not, however, in the least embarrassed—I have no debts."

"And is it 'business,' which keeps you?—will you ever come back to Northumberland?"

"Yes, it is business that keeps me—important business. Whether or not I shall return to Northumberland, depends on the outcome of that business."

"Why did you leave without a word of farewell to your friends?" she persisted.

"Was that unusual?" said Croyden. "Has any of my friends cared—sincerely cared? Has any one so much as inquired for me?"

She looked away.

"They thought you were called to Europe, suddenly," she replied.

"For which thinking you were responsible, Elaine."

"Why I?" she demanded.

"You were the only one I told."

Her eyes sought his, then fell.

"It was because of the failure," she said. "You were the largest creditor—you disappeared—there were queries and rumors—and I thought it best to tell. I hope I did no harm."

"On the contrary," he said, "I am very, very grateful to know that some one thought of me."

The music stopped. It was just in time. Another moment, and he might have said what he knew was folly. Her body close to his, his arm around her, the splendor of her bared shoulders, the perfume of her hair, the glory of her face, were overcoming him, were intoxicating his senses, were drugging him into non-resistance. The spell was broken not an instant too soon. He shook himself—like a man rousing from dead sleep—and took her back to their party.

The next instant, as she was whirled away by another, she shot him an alluringly fascinating smile, of intimate camaraderie, of understanding, which well-nigh put him to sleep again.

"I would that I might get such a smile," sighed Macloud.

"You go to the devil!" said Croyden. "She has the same smile for all her friends, so don't be silly."

"And don't be blind!" Macloud laughed.

"Moreover, if it's a different smile, the field is open. I'm scratched, you know."

"Can a man be scratched after he has won?" asked Macloud.

"More silliness!" Croyden retorted, as he turned away to search for his partner.

When the Hop was over, they said good-night at the foot of the stairs, in the Exchange.

"We shall see you in the morning, of course—we leave about ten o'clock," said Miss Cavendish.

"We shall be gone long before you are awake," answered Croyden. And, when she looked at him inquiringly, he added: "It's an appointment that may not be broken."

"Well, till Northumberland, then!" Miss Brundage remarked.

But Elaine Cavendish's only reply was a meaning nod and another fascinating smile. She wished him success.

As they entered their own rooms, a little later, Macloud, in the lead, switched on the lights—and stopped!

"Hello!—our wallets, by all that's good!" he exclaimed.

"Hurrah!" cried Croyden, springing in, and stumbling over Macloud in his eagerness.

He seized his wallet!—A touch, and the story was told. No need to investigate—it was as empty as the day it came from the shop, save for a few visiting cards, and some trifling memoranda. The letter and the money were gone.

"Damn!" said Croyden.

Macloud laughed.

"You didn't fancy you would find it?" he said.

"No, I didn't, but damn! anyway—who wouldn't?"

"Oh, you're strictly orthodox!" Macloud laughed. "But the pity is that won't help us. They've got old Parmenter's letter—and our ready cash as well; but the cash does not count."

"It counts with me," said Croyden. "I'm out something over a hundred—and that's considerable to me now. Anything to show where they were recovered?"

Macloud was nearest the telephone. He took down the receiver. After a time he was answered.

"What do you know about our wallets?" he asked.... "Thank you!—The office says, they were found by one of the bell-boys in a garbage can on King George Street."

"Very good," said Croyden. "If they mean fight, I reckon we can accommodate them. Greenberry Point early in the morning."



IX

THE WAY OUT

"I've been thinking," said Croyden, as they footed it across the Severn bridge, "that, if we knew the year in which the light-house was erected, we could get the average encroachment of the sea every year, and, by a little figuring, arrive at where the point was in 1720. It would be approximate, of course, but it would give us a start—something more definite than we have now. For all we know Parmenter's treasure may be a hundred yards out in the Bay."

Macloud nodded. "And if we don't find the date, here," he added, "we can go to Washington and get it from the Navy Department. An inquiry from Senator Rickrose will bring what we want, instantly."

"At the same time, why shouldn't we get permission to camp on the Point for a few weeks?" Croyden suggested. "It would make it easy for us to dig and investigate, and fish and measure, in fact, do whatever we wished. Having a permit from the Department, would remove all suspicion."

"Bully! We're fond of the open—with a town convenient!" Macloud laughed. "I know Rickrose well, we can go down this afternoon and see him. He will be so astonished that we are not seeking a political favor, he will go to the Secretary himself and make ours a personal request. Then we will get the necessary camp stuff, and be right on the job."

They had passed the Experiment Station and the Rifle Range, and were rounding the shoal onto the Point, when the trotting of a rapidly approaching horse came to them from the rear.

"Suppose we conceal ourselves, and take a look," suggested Macloud. "Here is a fine place."

He pointed to some rocks and bushes that lined the roadway. The next instant, they had disappeared behind them.

A moment more, and the horse and buggy came into view. In it were two men—of medium size, dressed quietly, with nothing about them to attract attention, save that the driver had a hook-nose, and the other was bald, as the removal of his hat, an instant, showed.

"The thieves!" whispered Croyden.

"Yes—I'll bet a hundred on it!" Macloud answered.

"Greenberry Point seems far off," said the driver—"I wonder if we can have taken the wrong road?"

"This is the only one we could take," the other answered, "so we must be right. I wonder what that jay's doing?" he added, with a laugh.

"Cussing himself for——" The rest was lost in the noise of the team.

"Right, you are!" said Croyden, lifting himself from a bed of stones and vines. "Right, you are, my friend! And if I had a gun, I'd give the Coroner a job with both of you."

Macloud looked thoughtful.

"It would be most effective," he said. "But could we carry it off cleanly? The law is embarrassing if we're detected, you know."

"You're not serious?" said Croyden.

"I never was more so," the other answered. "I'd shoot those scoundrels down without a second's hesitation, if I could do it and not be caught."

"A trifle unconventional!" commented Croyden. "However, your idea isn't half bad; they wouldn't hesitate to do the same to us."

"Exactly! They won't hesitate—and, what's more, they have the nerve to take the chance. That is the difference between us and them."

They waited until they could no longer hear the horse's hoof-falls nor the rumble of the wheels. Then they started forward, keeping off the road and taking a course that afforded the protection of the trees and undergrowth. Presently, they caught sight of the two men—out in the open, their heads together, poring over a paper, presumably the Parmenter letter.

"It is not as easy finding the treasure, as it was to pick my pocket!" chuckled Croyden. "There's the letter—and there are the men who stole it. And we are helpless to interfere, and they know it. It's about as aggravating as——" He stopped, for want of a suitable comparison.

Macloud only nodded in acquiescence.

The men finished with the letter. Hook-nose went on to the Point, and stood looking at the ruins of the light-house out in the Bay; the other turned and viewed the trees that were nearest.

"Much comfort you'll get from either," muttered Croyden.

Hook-nose returned, and the two held a prolonged conversation, each of them gesticulating, now toward the water, and again toward the timber. Finally, one went down to the extreme point and stepped off two hundred and fifty paces inland. He marked this point with a stone.

Bald-head pointed to the trees, a hundred yards away, and shook his head. More talk followed. Then they produced a compass, and ran the additional distance to the North-east.

"Dig! damn you, dig!" exclaimed Macloud. "The treasure's not there."

"You'll have to work your brain a bit," Croyden added. "The letter's not all that's needed, thank Heaven! You've stolen the one, but you can't steal the other."

The men, after consulting together, went to the buggy, took out two picks and shovels, and, returning to the place, fell to work.

"Did you ever see such fools?" said Macloud. "Dig! damn you, dig!"

After a short while, Bald-head threw down his pick and hoisted himself out of the hole. An animated discussion followed.

"He's got a glimmer of intelligence, at last," Croyden muttered.

The discussion grew more animated, they waved their arms toward the Bay, and toward the Severn, and toward the land. Hook-nose slammed his pick up and down to emphasize his argument. Bald-head did likewise.

"They'll be doing the war dance, next!" laughed Macloud.

"'When thieves fall out, honest men come by their own,'" Croyden quoted.

"More honest men, you mean—the comparative degree."

"Life is made up of comparatives," said Croyden. "What's the matter now?" as Bald-head faced about and stalked back to the buggy. "Has he quit work so soon?"

"He has simply quit digging a hole at random," Macloud said. "My Lord, he's taking a drink!"

Bald-head, however, did not return to his companion. Instead, he went out to the Bay and stood looking across the water toward the bug-light. Then he turned and looked back toward the timber.

He was thinking, as they had. The land had been driving inward by the encroachment of the Bay—the beeches had, long since, disappeared, the victims of the gales which swept the Point. There was no place from which to start the measurements. Beyond the fact that, somewhere near by, old Parmenter had buried his treasure, one hundred and ninety years before, the letter was of no definite use to anyone.

From the Point, he retraced his steps leisurely to his companion, who had continued digging, said something—to which Hook-nose seemingly made no reply, save by a shovel of sand—and continued directly toward the timber.

"Has he seen us?" said Croyden.

"I think not—these bushes are ample protection. Lie low.... He's not coming this way—he's going to inspect the big trees, on our left.... They won't help you, my light-fingered friend; they're not the right sort."

After a time, Bald-head abandoned the search and went back to his friend. Throwing himself on the ground, he talked vigorously, and, apparently, to some effect, for, presently, the digging ceased and Hook-nose began to listen. At length, he tossed the pick and shovel aside, and lifted himself out of the hole. After a few more gesticulations, they picked up the tools and returned to the buggy.

"Have they decided to abandon it?" said Croyden, as they drove away.

The thieves, themselves, answered the question. At the first heavy undergrowth, they stopped the horse and proceeded carefully to conceal the tools. This accomplished, they drove off toward the town.

"Hum!" said Macloud. "So you're coming back are you? I wonder what you intend to do?"

"I wish we knew," Croyden returned. "It might help us—for quite between ourselves, Macloud, I think we're stumped."

"Our first business is to move on Washington and get the permit," Macloud returned. "Hook-nose and his friend may have the Point, for to-day; they're not likely to injure it. Come along!"

They were passing the Marine Barracks when Croyden, who had been pondering over the matter, suddenly broke out:

"We've got to get rid of those two fellows, Colin!"

"Granted!" said Macloud. "But how are we to manage it?"

"We agree that we dare not have them arrested—they would blow everything to the police. And the police would either graft us for all the jewels are worth, or inform the Government."

"Yes, but we may have to take the risk—or else divide up with the thieves. Which do you prefer to do?"

"Neither!" said Croyden. "There is another way—except killing them, which, of course, would be the most effective. Why shouldn't we imprison them—be our own jailers?"

Macloud threw away his cigarette and lit another before he replied, then he shook his head.

"Too much risk to ourselves," he said. "Somebody would likely be killed in the operation, with the chances strongly favoring ourselves. I'd rather shoot them down from ambush, at once."

"That may require an explanation to a judge and jury, which would be a trifle inconvenient. I'd prefer to risk my life in a fight. Then, if it came to court, our reputation is good, while theirs is in the rogues' gallery."

"Where would you imprison them?" asked Macloud, dubiously.

"That is the difficulty, I admit. Think over it, while we're going to Washington and back; see if you can't find a way out. Either we must jug them, securely, for a week or two, or we must arrest them. On the whole, it might be wiser to let them go free—let them make a try for the treasure, unmolested. When they fail and retire, we can begin."

"Your last alternative doesn't sound particularly attractive to me—or to you, either, I fancy."

"This isn't going to be a particularly attractive quest, if we want to succeed," said Croyden. "Pirate's gold breeds pirate's ways, I reckon—blood and violence and sudden death. We'll try to play it without death, however, if our opponents will permit. Such title, as exists to Parmenter's hoard, is in me, and I am not minded to relinquish it without a struggle. I wasn't especially keen at the start, but I'm keen enough, now—and I don't propose to be blocked by two rogues, if there is a way out."

"And the way out, according to your notion, is to be our own jailers, think you?" said Macloud. "Well, we can chew on it—the manner of procedure is apt to keep us occupied a few hours."

They took the next train, on the Electric Line, to Washington, Macloud having telephoned ahead and made an appointment with Senator Rickrose—whom, luckily, they found at the Capital—to meet them at the Metropolitan Club for luncheon. At Fourteenth Street, they changed to a Connecticut Avenue car, and, dismounting at Seventeenth and dodging a couple of automobiles, entered the Pompeian brick and granite building, the home of the Club which has the most representative membership in the country.

Macloud was on the non-resident list, and the door-man, with the memory for faces which comes from long practice, greeted him, instantly, by name, though he had not seen him for months.

"Yes, Mr. Macloud, Senator Rickrose just came in," he said.

They met the Senator in the Red Room. He was very tall, with a tendency to corpulency, which, however, was lost in his great height; very dignified, and, for one of his service, very young—of immense influence in the councils of his party, and the absolute dictator in his own State. Inheriting a superb machine from a "matchless leader,"—who died in the harness—he had developed it into a well nigh perfect organization for political control. All power was in his hands, from the lowest to the highest, he ruled with a sway as absolute as a despot. His word was the ultimate law—from it an appeal did not lie.

"How are you, old fellow?" he said to Macloud, dropping a hand on his shoulder. "I haven't seen you for a long time—and, Mr. Croyden, I think I have met you in Northumberland. I'm glad, indeed, to see you both." He touched a bell. "Take the orders!" he said, to the boy.

"Senator!" said Macloud, a little later, when they had finished luncheon. "I want to ask a slight favor—not political however—so it won't have to be endorsed by the organization."

The Senator laughed. "In that event, it is granted before you ask. What is it I can do?"

"Have the Secretary of the Navy issue us a permit to camp on Greenberry Point."

"Where the devil is Greenberry Point?" said Rickrose.

"Across the Severn River from Annapolis."

Rickrose turned in his chair and glanced over the dining-room. Then he raised his hand to the head waiter.

"Has the Secretary of the Navy had luncheon?" he asked.

"Yes, sir—before you came in."

The Senator nodded.

"We would better go over to the Department, at once, or we shall miss him," he said. "Chevy Chase is the drawing card, in the afternoon."

The reception hour was long passed, but the Secretary was in and would see Senator Rickrose. He came forward to meet him—a tall, middle-aged, well-groomed man, with sandy hair, whose principal recommendation for the post he filled was the fact that he was the largest contributor to the campaign fund in his State, and his senior senator needed him in his business, and had refrigerated him into the Cabinet for safe keeping—that being the only job which insured him from being a candidate for the Senator's own seat. It is a great game, is politics!

"Mr. Secretary!" said Rickrose, "my friends want a permit to camp for two weeks on Greenberry Point."

"Greenbury Point!" said the Secretary, vaguely—"that's somewhere out in San Francisco harbor?"

"Not the Greenberry Point they mean," the Senator replied. "It's down at Annapolis—across the Severn from the Naval Academy, and forms part of that command, I presume. It is waste land, unfortified and wind swept."

"Oh! to be sure. I know it. Why wouldn't the Superintendent give you a permit?" turning to Macloud. "It is within his jurisdiction."

"We didn't think to ask him," said Macloud. "We supposed it was necessary to apply direct to you."

"They are not familiar with the customs of the service," explained Rickrose, "and, as I may run down to see them, just issue the permit to me and party. The Chairman of the Naval Affairs Committee is inspecting the Point, if you need an excuse."

"Oh, no! none whatever—however, a duplicate will be forwarded to the Superintendent. If it should prove incompatible with the interests of the service," smiling, "he will inform the Department, and we shall have to revoke it."

He rang for his stenographer and dictated the permit. When it came in, he signed it and passed it over to Rickrose.

"Anything else I can do for you, Senator?" he asked.

"Not to-day, thank you, Mr. Secretary," Rickrose answered.

"Do you actually intend to come down?" asked Macloud, when they were in the corridor. "That will be bully."

He shot a look at Croyden. His face was a study. Hunting the Parmenter treasure, with the Chairman of the Naval Affairs Committee as a disinterested spectator, was rather startling, to say the least. The Senator's reply reassured them.

"Impossible!" he said. "The campaign opens next week, and I'm drawn as a spell-binder in the Pacific States. That figurehead was ruffling his feathers on you, just to show himself, so I thought I'd comb him down a bit. You'll experience no difficulty, I fancy. If you do, wire me, and I'll get busy. I've got to go over to the State Department now, so I'll say good-bye—anything else you want let me know."

"Next for a sporting goods shop," said Macloud as they went down the steps into Pennsylvania Avenue; "for a supply of small arms and ammunition—and, incidentally, a couple of tents. We can get a few cooking utensils in Annapolis, but we will take our meals at Carvel Hall. I think neither of us is quite ready to turn cook."

"I am sure, I'm content!" laughed Croyden. "We can hire a horse and buggy by the week, and keep them handy—better get a small tent for the horse, while we're about it."

They went to a shop on F Street, where they purchased three tents of suitable size, two Winchester rifles, and a pair of Colt's military revolvers with six-and-a-half inch barrels, and the necessary ammunition. These they directed should be sent to Annapolis immediately. Cots and blankets could be procured there, with whatever else was necessary.

They were bound up F Street, toward the Electric Station, when Macloud broke out.

"If we had another man with us, your imprisonment idea would not be so difficult—we could bag our game much more easily, and guard them more securely when we had them. As it is, it's mighty puzzling to arrange."

"True enough!" said Croyden, "but where is the man who is trustworthy—not to mention willing to take the risk, of being killed or tried for murder, for someone else's benefit? They're not many like you, Colin."

A man, who was looking listlessly in a window just ahead, turned away. He bore an air of dejection, and his clothes, while well cut, were beginning to show hard usage and carelessness.

"Axtell!" Macloud observed—"and on his uppers!"

"There's our man!" exclaimed Croyden. "He is down hard, a little money with a small divide, if successful, will get him. What do you say?"

"Nothing!" replied Macloud. "It's up to you."

Axtell saw them; he hesitated, whether to speak or to go on. Croyden solved the question.

"Hello! Axtell, what are you doing here?" he said, extending his hand.

Axtell grasped it, as a drowning man a straw.

"You're kind to ask, Mr. Croyden! Mighty kind in one who lost so much through us."

"You were not to blame—Royster's responsible, and he's gone——"

"To hell!" Axtell interrupted, bitterly. "May he burn forever!"

"Amen to that wish!" Croyden smiled. "Meanwhile, can I do anything for you? You're having a run of hard luck, aren't you?"

For a moment, Axtell did not answer—he was gulping down his thoughts.

"I am," he said. "I've just ten dollars to my name. I came here thinking the Congressmen, who made piles through our office, would get me something, but they gave me the marble stare. I was good enough to tip them off and do favors for them, but they're not remembering me now. Do you know where I can get a job?"

"Yes—I'll give you fifty dollars and board, if you will come with us for two weeks. Will you take it?"

"Will I take it?—Well, rather!"

"What you're to do, with Mr. Macloud and myself, we will disclose later. If, then, you don't care to aid us, we must ask you to keep silence about it."

"I don't want to know anything!" said Axtell. "I'll do my part, and ask no questions—and thank you for trusting me. You're the first man since our failure, who hasn't hit me in the face—don't you think I appreciate it?"

"Very good!" said Croyden. "Have you any other baggage?" nodding toward a small bag, which Axtell had in his hand.

"No."

"Then, come along—we're bound for Annapolis, and the car leaves in ten minutes."



X

PIRATE'S GOLD BREEDS PIRATE'S WAYS

That evening, in the seclusion of their apartment at Carvel Hall, they took Axtell into their confidence—to a certain extent (though, again, he protested his willingness simply to obey orders). They told him, in a general way, of Parmenter's bequest, and how Croyden came to be the legatee—saying nothing of its great value, however—its location, the loss of the letter the previous evening, the episode of the thieves on the Point, that morning, and their evident intention to return to the quest.

"Now, what we want to know is: are you ready to help us—unaided by the law—to seize these men and hold them prisoners, while we search for the treasure?" Croyden asked. "We may be killed in the attempt, or we may kill one or both of them, and have to stand trial if detected. If you don't want to take the risk, you have only to decline—and hold your tongue."

"My dear Mr. Croyden!" said Axtell, "I don't want you to pay me a cent—just give me my board and lodging and I'll gladly aid you as long as necessary. It's a very little thing to do for one who has lost so much through us. You provide for our defense, if we're apprehended by the law, and that" (snapping his fingers) "for the risk."

Croyden held out his hand.

"We'll shake hands on that, Axtell, if you please," he said; "and, if we recover what Parmenter buried, you'll not regret it."

The following morning saw them down at the Point with the equipage and other paraphernalia. The men, whom they had brought from Annapolis for the purpose, pitched the tents under the trees, ditched them, received their pay, climbed into the wagons and rumbled away to town—puzzled that anyone should want to camp on Greenberry Point when they had the price of a hotel, and three square meals a day.

"It looks pretty good," said Croyden, when the canvases were up and everything arranged—"and we shan't lack for the beautiful in nature. This is about the prettiest spot I've ever seen, the Chesapeake and the broad river—the old town and the Academy buildings—the warships at anchor—the tout ensemble! We may not find the treasure, but, at least, we've got a fine camp—though, I reckon, it is a bit breezy when the wind is from the Bay."

"I wonder if we should have paid our respects to the Superintendent before poaching on his preserves?" said Macloud.

"Hum—hadn't thought of that!" Croyden answered. "Better go in and show ourselves to him, this afternoon. He seems to be something of a personage down here, and we don't want to offend him. These naval officers, I'm told, are sticklers for dignity and the prerogatives due their rank."

"Hold on!" exclaimed Macloud. "On that score, we've got some rank ourselves to uphold."

"What!" said Croyden.

"Certainly! the Chairman of the Committee on Naval Affairs, of the United States Senate, is with us. According to the regulations, is it his duty to call first on the Superintendent?—that's the point."

"Give it up!" laughed Croyden. "However, the Superintendent has a copy of the letter, and he will know the ropes. We will wait a day, then, if he's quiescent, it's up to us."

"Great head!" laughed Macloud. "You should have been a diplomat, Croyden—nothing less than an Ambassadorship for you, my boy!"

Croyden smiled.

"A motor boat would be mighty convenient to go back and forth to Annapolis," he said. "Look at the one cutting through the water there, midway across!"

It came nearer, halted a little way off in deep water, and an officer in uniform swept the tents and them with a glass. Then the boat put about and went chugging upstream.

"We didn't seem to please him," remarked Macloud, gazing after the boat. Suddenly it turned in toward shore and made the landing at the Experiment Station.

"We are about to be welcomed or else ordered off—I'll take a bet either way," said Macloud.

"Welcomed!" Croyden responded. "Otherwise, they wouldn't have despatched an officer—it would have been a file of marines instead. You haven't lost the permit, Macloud!"

"You don't seem very sure!" Macloud laughed.

Presently, the officer appeared, walking rapidly down the roadway. As soon as he sighted the tents, he swung over toward them. Macloud went a few steps forward to meet him.

"Is this Senator Rickrose?" the Lieutenant inquired.

"No," said Macloud. "Senator Rickrose isn't coming until later. I am one of his friends, Colin Macloud, and this is Mr. Croyden and Mr. Axtell."

"Very glad to meet you, gentlemen!" said the Lieutenant. "The Superintendent presents his compliments and desires to place himself and the Academy at your disposal." (He was instructed to add, that Captain Boswick would pay his respects to-morrow, having been called to Washington to-day by an unexpected wire, but the absence of the Chairman of the Naval Affairs Committee rendered it unnecessary.)

"Thank Captain Boswick, for Senator Rickrose and us, and tell him we appreciate his kindness exceedingly," Macloud answered. "We're camping here for a week or so, to try sleeping in the open, under sea air. We're not likely to prove troublesome!" he added.

Then they took several drinks, and the aide departed.

"So far, we're making delightful progress," said Croyden; "but there are breakers ahead when Hook-nose and his partner get in the game. Suppose we inspect the premises and see if they have been here in our absence."

They went first to the place where they had seen them conceal the tools—these were gone; proof that the thieves had paid a second visit to the Point. But, search as they might, no evidence of work was disclosed.

"What does it mean?" said Croyden. "Have they abandoned the quest?"

"Not very likely," replied Macloud, "with half a million at stake. They probably are seeking information; when they have it, we shall see them back again."

"Suppose they bring four or five others to help them?"

"They won't—never fear!—they're not sharing the treasure with any one else. Rather, they will knife each other for it. Honor among thieves is like the Phoenix—it doesn't exist."

"If the knifing business were to occur before the finding, it would help some!" laughed Croyden. "Meantime, I'm going to look at the ruins of the light-house. I discovered in an almanac I found in the hotel last night, that the original light-house was erected on Greenberry Point in 1818. This fact may help us a lot."

They went out to the extreme edge, and stood gazing across the shoals toward the ruins.

"What do you make the distance from the land?" Croyden asked.

"About one hundred yards—but it's very difficult to estimate over water. It may be two hundred for all I can tell."

"It is exactly three hundred and twenty-two feet from the Point to the near side of the ruins," said Croyden.

"Why not three hundred and twenty-two and a half feet!" scoffed Macloud.

"I measured it this morning while you were dawdling over your breakfast," answered Croyden.

"Hitched a line to the land and waded out, I suppose."

"Not exactly; I measured it on the Government map of the Harbor. It gives the distance as three hundred and twenty-two feet, in plain figures."

"I said you had a great head!" Macloud exclaimed. "Now, what's the rest of the figures—or haven't you worked it out?"

Croyden drew out a paper. "The calculation is of value only on the assumption—which, however, is altogether reasonable—that the light-house, when erected, stood on the tip of the Point. It is now three hundred and twenty-two feet in water. Therefore, dividing ninety-two—the number of years since erection—into three hundred and twenty-two, gives the average yearly encroachment of the Bay as three and a half feet. Parmenter buried the casket in 1720, just a hundred and ninety years ago; so, multiplying a hundred and ninety by three and a half feet gives six hundred and sixty-five feet. In other words, the Point, in 1720, projected six hundred and sixty-five feet further out in the Bay than it does to-day."