His reply was a cryptic generality.
"I am hoping we are not entirely through with the fat cook, yet, Dick; in fact, I'm almost certain we're not."
"What's gnawing at you now?" I asked sourly.
"Just a suggestion," he answered half-absently, I thought. "We have something at our end of the island that is much more valuable—and desirable—than anything the pirates will find where they are digging now."
The way in which he said it, as much as the thing itself, made my blood run cold.
"The women, you mean?"
"It's only a suggestion," he hastened to say; "a suggestion based upon a name. Let's forget it, if we can."
We had groped our way for another hundred yards before I said: "It's a beautiful muddle! They won't find your gold—the whereabouts of which seems to be a lot more mythical than any of the old Spanish sea tales—and they will find the tidy little fortune we turned up for Madeleine."
"Of course; they'll be sure to find that," he agreed, still speaking half-absently.
"You talk as if you didn't care," I snapped. "Is Madeleine's dilemma any less sharp pointed now than it was when you cooked up this romantic scheme of yours for helping her?"