“More straightforward,” suggested Patty. “If he’d only written a few words of plain prose, and left it with his lawyer, all this trouble needn’t have been.”
“Well, I suppose he did intend to make it plain before he died, but he went off so suddenly. Oh, here are the boys.”
Sinclair and Bob came bounding down toward the rose garden, followed more sedately by their mother and grandmother.
“Not a sign of a griffin a-sniffin’ of a rose,” said Patty, disconsolately.
“Oh, you haven’t looked all round yet,” said Bob. “It’s such fun to have something to look for besides fir trees and beds, I’m going to make a close search.”
“Of course,” said Sinclair, “the same rose bush wouldn’t be here now that was here thirty or forty years ago.”
“But it would have been renewed,” said Mrs. Cromarty. “We’ve always tried to keep the flowers as nearly as possible the same.”
“Then here goes to interview every griffin on the place,” declared Bob. “Jolly of old uncle to mark the spot with a rosebush and a griffin. That’s what I call decent of him. And you’re a wonder, Patty, to find the old paper.”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” said Patty. “I just followed your orders about the books. If you’d kept at it yourself, you’d have found the same book.”
“I s’pose so. But I’m glad you helped the good work along. Oh, dear! no rosebush seems to be near a griffin; and the griffins seem positively afraid of the rosebushes.” And try as they would, no angry griffin could they find, with a rosebush near it. Griffins there were in plenty; both angry and grinning. Also were there plenty of roses, but they were arranged in well-laid-out beds, and in no case were guarded or menaced by angry griffins.