“We thought that ze time 'ad come, dear boy... we know zat you are busy.” Mr. Zanti looked about him a little anxiously, as though he expected to find Mrs. Peter hiding under a chair or a sofa.
“Oh! Stephen, after all this long long while! Why didn't you come before when Mr. Zanti came?”
“Too many of us coming, Mr. Peter, and you so busy.”
“Nonsense. I'm not in the least busy. I'm sorry to say my wife's out but the baby's in, upstairs, and there's the most terrific woman up there too, the nurse—I'm frightened out of my life of her—but we'll get rid of her and have the place to ourselves... you know the kid's called after you, Stephen?”
“No, is he really?” Stephen's face shone with pleasure. “I'm keen to see him.”
“Oh, he's a trump! There never really was such a baby.”
“And your books, Mr. Peter?”
“Oh! the books!” Peter's voice dropped, “never mind them now. But what have you been doing, you two? Made heaps of money? Discovered treasure?...” He pulled himself up shortly. He remembered the bookshop, the girl leaning against the door looking into the street, then the boys crying the news....
If Mr. Zanti had been mixing himself up with that sort of thing again! And then the bright blue suit, the white spats, were reassuring. As if one could ever take such a child seriously about anything!
Mr. Zanti shook his head, ruefully. “No, not ezackly a fortune! There was a place I 'eard of, right up in the Basque country—'twas an old deserted garden, where zey 'ad buried treasure, centuries ago—I 'ad it quite certainly from a friend. We came up there for a time but we found nothing.” He sighed and then was instantly cheered again. “But it's all right. I've got a plan now—a wonderful plan.” He became very mysterious. “It's a certain thing—we're off to Cornwall, Mr. Brant and myself—”