“Oh, no you wouldn’t,” said Mrs. Hartley; “and beside, that has almost been done. My husband had so much of the woodwork and plaster removed, that I almost feared he would bring the house down about our ears. And it is such a big, rambling old place, it is hopeless to think of examining it really thoroughly.”
Patty glanced around at the great hall she was in. The groined ceiling, with its intricate carvings at the intersections; the cornice carved in deep relief, with heraldic bosses, and massive patterns; the tall columns and pilasters; all seemed part of an old monument which it would be desecration to break into.
“I wonder where it is,” she said; “indoors or out.”
“I think it’s out of doors,” said Sinclair. “I think uncle hid it in the house first, and then wrote his exquisite poem about the poke. Perhaps it was merely a pocket of leather or canvas, that hung behind the headboard of his own bed. In that case all prying into the walls would mean nothing. Then, I think, as that was only a temporary hiding-place, he later buried it in the ground between some special oak tree and fir tree, or trees. I think, too, he left, or meant to leave some more of his poetry to tell which trees, but owing to his sudden taking off, he didn’t do this.”
“Sinclair,” said Bob, “as our American friend, Mr. Dooley, says, ‘Yer opinions is inthrestin’, but not convincin’.’ As opinions, they’re fine; but I wish I had some facts. If uncle had only left a cryptogram or a cipher, I’d like it better than all that rhymed foolishness.”
“Perhaps it isn’t foolishness,” said Patty; “I think, with Sinclair, it’s likely Mr. Marmaduke wrote the indoor one first, and then changed the hiding-place and wrote the other. But how could he do all this hiding and rehiding without being seen?”
“I went up to London every season,” said Mrs. Cromarty; “and, of course, took Emmeline with me. Marmaduke always stayed here, and thus had ample opportunity to do what he would. Indeed, he usually had great goings-on while we were away. One year, he had the Italian garden laid out. Another year, he had a new porter’s lodge built. This was done the last year of his life, and as he had masons around so much at that time, repairing the cellars and all that, we thought later, that he might have had a hiding-place arranged in the wall behind the head of his bed. But, if so, we never could find it.”
“And have you dug under the trees much?” persisted Patty, who could not accept the hopelessness of the others.
“Dug!” exclaimed Bob, “I’ve blistered my hands by the hour. I’ve viewed fir trees and oaks, until I know every one on the place by heart. I’ve trudged a line from oaks to firs, and starting in the middle, I’ve dug both ways. But I’m nearly ready to give up. Not quite, though. I’m making a thorough search of all the books in the library, on the chance of finding some other message. But there are such a lot of books! I’ve been at it for three years now, off and on, and I’m only three-quarters way round. And not a paper yet, except a few old letters and bills.”
“I’ll help you, Bob,” said Patty; “oh, I’d love to do something toward the search, even if I don’t find a thing. I’ll begin to-morrow. You tell me what books you’ve done.”