“Never mind,” said Sinclair, as they returned to the house for dinner, “it’s something to work on. I shall stay at home to-morrow and try to find that particular rosebush, or the place where it used to be.”
“Maybe it’s a stone rose,” said Patty, as she touched a rose carved in stone that was part of an ornamental urn whose handles were the heads of angry griffins. Sinclair stared at her.
“You’re right,” he said, slowly, as if grasping a great thought. “It’s much more likely to be a rose of stone or marble, and when that’s ruthlessly torn away the secret will be revealed. Oh, mother, there is hope!”
Patty had never seen the placid Sinclair so excited, and they all went to their rooms to get ready for dinner, with a feeling that something was going to happen. Conversation at dinner was all on the engrossing subject.
Everybody made suggestions, and everybody recalled various partly-forgotten griffins in odd nooks and corners, each being sure that was “just the place uncle would choose!”
After dinner, the young people were anxious to go out and search more, but it had begun to rain, so they all went into the library and again scrutinised the old papers Patty had found.
They looked through more books, too, but found nothing further of interest.
At last, wearied with the hunt, Patty threw herself into a big armchair and declared she would do no more that night.
“I should say not,” said Bob. “You’ve done quite enough in giving us this new start.”
Although, as Patty had said, the looking through all the old books was Bob’s plan, he generously gave her the credit of this new find. Sinclair threw himself on a long leather couch, and began to sing softly some of their nonsense songs, as he often did when tired out. The others joined, and for a time the fortune was left to take care of itself.