Mr. Brander very urbanely recited the fable of the cock and the jewel.
“’Twas the Lake of Wine,” said he; “and there it was under your nose while you kicked up the dunghill. Primers have their uses.”
“Maybe; maybe not.”
“Why, man—give me Cutwater’s letter.”
“What for?”
“Give me Cutwater’s letter, I say.”
The other hesitated, then from a pocket-book that he drew from his coat, selected a yellowed fragment of paper and flung it sulkily across the table to his companion.
“Now, Mr. Fern,” said Brander, taking up the letter deliberately and referring to it—“vouchsafe me your kind attention, if you please. This was dated, I think, some months before the lamented gentleman’s death, and was addressed to you?”
“Oh! curse you out of your pedantry, Ebenezer Brander!”
“In it occur the following words, once expressive of mere violence to you—of enigma to me. Let me re-read them. ‘I’ve got the stone, bloody Jack Fern, and the stone I mean to keep. You’ll find it, despite the devil and Mister C., will you? Find it, you——’ (Tut, tut, Mr. Cutwater! what a shocking unpoliteness!) ‘Pray to the blessed St. Anthony, you’d better; for it’s hid well, I’ll tell you. It’s in my head but you’ll make a lame matter of the search.’”