"Stop!" I commanded, shaking my head. "Haven't I just said that I don't want to talk about literature? Buried treasure is the very worst form of literature."
"Very well," she said indignantly. "You will be sorry when you hear I've dug it up and made off with it."
I pricked up my ears. This made a difference. "Are you going to hunt for it yourself?"
"I am," she said resolutely.
"In those dark, dank, grewsome cellars?"
"Certainly."
"Alone?"
"If necessary," she said, looking at me over the edge of the coffee cup.
"Tell me all about it," said I.
"Oh, we sha'n't find it, of course," said she calmly. I made note of the pronoun. "They've been searching for it for two centuries without success. My—that is, Mr. Pless has spent days down there. He is very hard-up, you know. It would come in very handy for him."