"Margaret, I want to tell you something Father said last night. It may make you feel better about this very thing. He said that even though the original journal was destroyed, that didn't alter the fact that we youngsters had made a most remarkable 'find,' and had discovered a mystery that was well worth tracking to its finish. He says he's proud to be a member of the Antiquarian Club, and hopes you haven't let any one else into the secret. He wants it kept quiet till we've fathomed the riddle, if we ever do! You haven't told any one yet, have you?"
Margaret raised her head, at this, with a faint spark of interest. "No, I haven't even told Mother," she said, "because I hated to have her know how near we'd been to finding something valuable, and then disappointing her by saying it was lost. Of course, we've told her all about your father's visit, and she thought he was so kind to take such an interest in us. She said she supposed it was for your sake. Sarah has never said another word, even to me, about the things she burned up. I think she's half ashamed of it, and yet feels that she really did right in taking away something that she supposed was hurting me. She's awfully worried because I don't seem so well, and she's almost killing herself taking care of me and doing all her other work, too. But, Corinne, did your father say he'd really like this all kept a secret still? That's awfully nice of him, and makes what I did seem not quite so foolish! I believe I'll feel a little better about it from now on!"
Margaret certainly appeared to improve in spirits after this interview, but still her bodily strength did not return, and day after day she remained confined to her bed. Her mother and Sarah grew almost ill themselves with anxiety about her. The doctor said it was the drain of the winter on her frail system, and prescribed a strong tonic, but even this did not seem to have the desired effect. But Corinne came in one day with news that actually brought a tint of pale pink to the little invalid's white cheeks.
"Father's been doing some tall thinking lately," she announced, "and this is the result. He wants me to submit the matter to the Antiquarian Club for due consideration, and would like every member present when I do so. Where are the others?"
The twins and Alexander were promptly gathered into Margaret's room, and Corinne continued:
"This is what Father's been puzzling over. He says that sapphire signet must have been a very valuable thing, and it ought to be found, if there's the slightest possibility of finding it. He knows a lot about precious stones and their history, and he says that a sapphire signet, especially an old one, is a very rare thing. The reason is that sapphires are so hard that it's very difficult to engrave them, and so signets were not very often made of them. So, if this signet were found, it would probably be worth a great deal of money. But, more than that, he thinks we owe it as a duty to the memory of little Alison to make some effort, at least, to find it and restore it to her descendants or family, if she has any left."
"That's what I've always thought, too!" murmured Margaret, parenthetically.
"Well, he says he's been doing some 'Sherlock Holmes' thinking, and trying to imagine where she could possibly have concealed that trinket. He doesn't think she kept it hidden about herself anywhere. She would probably have thought that too dangerous, for she might have been searched. And he can't bring himself to think that she concealed it anywhere about the house or in the grounds,—there would have been such slight chance, in such a case, of it ever getting back to Bermuda, or her relatives ever having a chance to find it. But he did wonder whether it might have been hidden in the secret beam with the other half of the journal. You would surely have found it, then, wouldn't you, Alexander?"
"Bet your life!" replied that youngster, promptly. "If that dinky little do-dab had been in there, yours truly would have cabbaged it all right! I knew well enough it was my last chance at that old dump, and I clawed over every square inch of it a dozen times before I rung off. No sirree! it wasn't there, and you can take your Uncle Dudley's word for it!"
"Then we'll count that out," went on Corinne. "Father didn't think there was much likelihood of it—only a remote possibility. Then there remain only two other possibilities, and he thinks the most likely one was—the old leather covers of the journal!"