“No,” said Ida, “for if he was, what became of all the money? He was known to be one of the richest men of his day, and that he was rich we can see from his letter to the King. There was nothing found after his death, except his lands, of course. Oh, it will be found someday, twenty centuries hence, probably, much too late to be of any good to us,” and she sighed deeply, while a pained and wearied expression spread itself over her handsome face.
“Well,” said Harold in a doubtful voice, “there may be something in it. May I take a copy of that writing?”
“Certainly,” said Ida laughing, “and if you find the treasure we will go shares. Stop, I will dictate it to you.”
Just as this process was finished and Harold was shutting up his pocket-book, in which he put the fair copy he had executed on a half-sheet of note paper, the old Squire came into the room again. Looking at his face, his visitor saw that the interview with “George” had evidently been anything but satisfactory, for it bore an expression of exceedingly low spirits.
“Well, father, what is the matter?” asked his daughter.
“Oh, nothing, my dear, nothing,” he answered in melancholy tones. “George has been here, that is all.”
“Yes, and I wish he would keep away,” she said with a little stamp of her foot, “for he always brings some bad news or other.”
“It is the times, my dear, it is the times; it isn’t George. I really don’t know what has come to the country.”
“What is it?” said Ida with a deepening expression of anxiety. “Something wrong with the Moat Farm?”
“Yes; Janter has thrown it up after all, and I am sure I don’t know where I am to find another tenant.”