“But at home it’s another matter!” Phyllis assured her. “Something’s come over him—I can’t guess what. He will hardly speak either to Father or myself. He doesn’t even want to play his violin when we get together, and usually he adores that. He’s moody and silent and just—grouchy, most of the time! And that’s unusual for Ted. I’ll give him credit for being a pretty amiable fellow, as a rule. I can’t make him out!”
“And it surely is queer that we’ve seen nothing more of Eileen, don’t you think so?” questioned Leslie.
“Well, no. Considering that she gained her point and got us away all that afternoon, I don’t think it at all queer. She’s done with us now. Why should she try to keep on with it? By the way, I called her up at Aunt Sally’s last night. She wasn’t there, but Aunt Sally said her grandfather has been rather worse for the last two days and she’s been at the hospital most of the time—was there then. All of which may or may not be so. As a matter of fact, I guess Aunt Sally knows precious little of her doings when she’s away in that car.”
Somehow, Leslie could never believe Eileen quite as full of duplicity as Phyllis thought her. While she had to admit that circumstances made the girl’s conduct seem almost inexcusable, there always lingered in her mind a stubborn feeling that perhaps there was more back of it all than they know—that Eileen herself might be struggling with entangling problems. And secretly she still felt a liking for the girl. But she knew it was useless to express these doubts to Phyllis, so she wisely kept her own counsel. But there was one thing she did allude to.
“Isn’t it strange that Eileen never told us a word about her grandfather, or how sick he was, or what was the matter with him? You would have thought it natural, that day when she took us riding, to say something about it, anyway. I hardly see now how she could have avoided it. And yet she did. You’d never have thought she had such a thing as a sick grandfather on her mind!”
“Leslie, you certainly are a trusting soul!” exclaimed Phyllis, scornfully. “How do you know she has a sick grandfather in any hospital? I strongly doubt it myself!”
“Oh, I can’t believe she’s not telling the truth about that!” cried Leslie, thoroughly shocked. “Don’t you believe anything about her any more?”
“I don’t know what I believe or don’t believe—about her!” retorted Phyllis. “And what’s more, there’s only one thing concerning her that I am interested in just now—whether she has discovered the answer to that note left in there and when she—or any one else—is going to make the attempt to unearth their treasure again!”
Phyllis had been as good as her word. On the morning after that night of the fog, she had returned to her bungalow before breakfast, and had reappeared later at Rest Haven with a mysterious bundle. When they had both retired to Leslie’s room she revealed its contents, a piece of burlap, an exact duplicate of the one which contained the Dragon’s Secret, and an antimony jewel-case. Then they got down the original from its dusty shelf, fashioned a bag, the exact size and shape of the one Rags had unearthed, placed the jewel-case in it, and sewed it up. When all was complete it would have been extremely difficult to tell the original from its duplicate, so nearly alike did they seem.
Late that afternoon, while Ted and his father were far up the inlet, and with the beach entirely deserted, they buried the false treasure-box in the sand by the old log. Phyllis did the deed, while Leslie scouted the beach in every direction, investigated every nook and corner that could possibly conceal any one, and made absolutely certain that they were not observed. And from that time on they had awaited results.