“But you don’t understand what it might mean, that Nubian roar. It may be another clew to point the location of—of what grandfather buried in the park, you know.”
Through the gloom he stared down into the gloomier scoop of her bonnet.
“Say,” he enquired, mildly as he could, “you ain’t going to ask me next to play Daniel and to dig in that lion’s den?”
“Hush. Don’t make fun. This is very important. If we can find four poplars over on this side of the park, within earshot of the menagerie lions—The first crypt verse starts off like this:
“‘List to the Nubian roar
And whisper of poplars four.’”
“I wish I could remember more accurately! It rhymes about bed-rock and crock, height and might and fight, then trails off into figures. But I am certain about those first two lines. Maybe we’re getting close. With that Nubian roar as a center, let’s walk round and round, in widening circles, until we list to the whisper of poplars four.”
Pape’s perplexity had not been eased by his steady stare into the poke.
“Very nice,” he said, “that stroll round and round, provided we don’t go too fast and get dizzy. But we can’t start at the present moment.”
“Why not?”—she, this time impatiently.
“You forget, my dear young lady, that we are arrested.”