“Yes, please,” said Patty, really gratified at Tom’s appreciative words.
“How long are you staying with the Hartleys?” Tom asked, as, returning with ices, he found cosy seats at a small table for himself and Patty.
“Two or three weeks longer, I think. But I shall hate to go away, for I’ve become so interested in their ‘mystery,’ that I can’t stop trying to solve it.”
“Oh, you mean that old affair of the hidden fortune. I don’t believe there’s any at all. I think the old man who pretended to hide it was merely guying them.”
“Oh, no! That can’t be. Why, it all sounds so real and natural. The story of the hiding, I mean.”
“Yes, but why should he want to hide it? Why not bank it decently, like other people?”
“Oh, because he was eccentric. People who are naturally queer or freakish are always hiding things. And I know it’s silly of me, but I’m going to try to find that money.”
“I’ve lots of faith in your energy and perseverance, but I can’t think you’ll succeed in that job. Better try something easier.”
“I don’t think I can say I expect to succeed. But I’m going to try—and—who can tell what might happen?”
“Who, indeed? But you know, of course, that the Cromarty people have been hunting it for nearly forty years.”