“That’s the rose of Sharon,” I said, pausing for a look at the old gnarled apple-tree. “I wonder if it really could have anything to do with the treasure?”
“Oh, come on, Biffkins,” said Dick, a little crossly. “Don’t you ever get that off your mind?”
“No, I don’t,” I retorted, sharply. “And I don’t see—”
I stopped abruptly, for I fancied I saw a shadow skulking away from us under the trees.
“What is it?” asked Tom, following the direction of my startled gaze.
“I thought I saw somebody,” I said; and in that instant, a terrible conviction flashed through my mind. “It was Silas Tunstall. Quick—this way.”
I was off under the trees, without stopping to think what we should do if it really proved to be that worthy, and I heard the boys pattering after me. We raced on, and in a moment, sure enough, there was the figure, just swinging itself over the orchard fence.
“There; there!” I cried, and the boys saw it, too. In a moment more we were at the fence, and tumbled over it.
But the figure had disappeared. We raced this way and that, but could find no trace of it; and at last we gave it up in disgust, and started back through the orchard.
But the memory of the figure I had seen for an instant silhouetted against the sky, as it mounted the fence, burnt and burnt in my brain—for I was sure that it carried under its arm a square parcel of some sort—and I told myself frantically that it could be only one thing—the treasure.