“I’ll go you!” exclaimed Croyden. He went to the telephone and called up Dick. “This is Geoffrey Croyden!” he said.—“I’ve a friend who wants to go across the Bay to Annapolis, in the morning. Where can I find out if there is a sailing vessel, or a motor boat, obtainable?... what’s that you say?... Miles Casey?—on Fleet Street, near the wharf?... Thank you!—He says,” turning to Macloud, “Casey will likely take us—he has a fishing schooner and it is in port. He lives on Fleet Street—we will walk down, presently, and see him.”
Macloud nodded assent, and fell to studying the directions again. Croyden returned to his chair and smoked in silence, waiting for his friend to conclude. At length, the latter folded the letter and looked up.
“It oughtn’t to be hard to find,” he observed.
“Not if the trees are still standing, and the Point is in the same place,” said Croyden. “But we’re going to find the Point shifted about ninety degrees, and God knows how many feet, while the trees will have long since disappeared.”
“Or the whole Point may be built over with houses!” Macloud responded. “Why not go the 100 whole throw-down at once—make it impossible to recover rather than only difficult to locate!” He made a gesture of disbelief. “Do you fancy that the Duvals didn’t keep an eye on Greenberry Point?—that they wouldn’t have noted, in their endorsements, any change in the ground? So it’s clear, in my mind, that, when Colonel Duval transferred this letter to you, the Parmenter treasure could readily be located.”
“I’m sure I shan’t object, in the least, if we walk directly to the spot, and hit the box on the third dig of the pick!” laughed Croyden. “But let us forget the old pirate, until to-morrow; tell me about Northumberland—it seems a year since I left! When one goes away for good and all, it’s different, you know, from going away for the summer.”
“And you think you have left it for good and all?” asked Macloud, blowing a smoke-ring and watching him with contemplative eyes—“Well, the place is the same—only more so. A good many people have come back. The Heights is more lively than when you left, teas, and dinners, and tournaments and such like.—In town, the Northumberland’s resuming its regulars—the theatres are open, and the Club has taken the bald-headed row on Monday nights as usual. Billy Cain has turned up engaged, also as usual—this time, it’s a Richmond girl, ‘regular screamer,’ he says. It will last the allotted time, of course—six weeks was the limit for the 101 last two, you’ll remember. Smythe put it all over Little in the tennis tournament, and ‘Pud’ Lester won the golf championship. Terry’s horse, Peach Blossom, fell and broke its neck in the high jump, at the Horse Show; Terry came out easier—he broke only his collar-bone. Mattison is the little bounder he always was—a month hasn’t changed him—except for the worse. Hungerford is a bit sillier. Colloden is the same bully fellow; he is disconsolate, now, because he is beginning to take on flesh.” Whereat both laughed. “Danridge is back from the North Cape, via Paris, with a new drink he calls The Spasmodic—it’s made of gin, whiskey, brandy, and absinthe, all in a pint of sarsaparilla. He says it’s great—I’ve not sampled it, but judging from those who have he is drawing it mild.... Betty Whitridge and Nancy Wellesly have organized a Sinners Class, prerequisites for membership in which are that you play Bridge on Sundays and have abstained from church for at least six months. It’s limited to twenty. They filled it the first morning, and have a waiting list of something over seventy-five.... That is about all I can think of that’s new.”
“Has any one inquired about me?” Croyden asked—with the lingering desire one has not to be forgot.
Macloud shot a questioning glance at him.
“Beyond the fact that the bankruptcy schedules show you were pretty hard hit, I’ve heard no one 102 comment,” he said. “They think you’re in Europe. Elaine Cavendish is sponsor for that report—she says you told her you were called, suddenly, abroad.”