Some time in the afternoon, the old man approached me confidentially.
“Say, young know-all,” he said, “what d’you figure out was the meaning of last night’s gaff? I guess Pauline ain’t got no natural talent for play-acting like that.”
Rather foolishly, I amused myself with his credulity.
“Of course,” I said, concealing a smile, “it may be that in a previous existence your daughter’s name was Lucia—the Spanish lady friend of some of the buccaneers and particularly of a certain John Dawson, who is now directing her to the treasure they buried together a few hundred years ago.” I regretted my words the moment they were uttered. The man’s infatuation needed no fanning from me.
“By God, you’ve hit it!” he exclaimed. “And she’s just remembering!—I guess she can lead us straight to it!”
“Don’t be absurd!” I said, pettishly. “I was only joking!”
He glared at me in savage disappointment.
“You’re joking with the wrong man!” he said harshly. “Besides, it sure ain’t impossible!—You don’t know what happens to us when we’re dead, though you do think you know everything!”
“No—it’s not impossible,” I conceded. “But it’s improbable.”