"How so?"
"This find means more than appears on the surface, sir."
"May I look at it?" asked Barbara.
A Slip Of Paper Fluttered To the Floor.
Mr. Presby handed the watch to her. She opened the case and gazed long at the face of the timepiece. She closed the case with a snap, then turned to the back, first studying the initials, next trying to open the back case. Bob Stevens assisted her with his pocket knife. The case came open suddenly. A slip of paper fluttered to the floor at Bab's feet.
"Oh!" she cried, snatching it up. She started to unfold the paper, then flushing, handed it to Mr. Presby. He shook his head.
"Look at it, my dear. There need be no secrets here."
Barbara did so, her hands trembling with excitement. A little furrow of perplexity appeared between the eyebrows. What she saw on the paper was a crude drawing of a toadstool with a slight point rising from the centre of the toadstool. In the background was what appeared to be a forest, but so awkwardly drawn that it was not possible to say positively that a forest was what the artist had intended. Below the picture of the toadstool was some writing. Stevens held the lantern closer, at her suggestion. "'The span of a minute is sixty seconds,'" read Barbara Thurston. "Now, what in the world does that mean?"
"I think it was your little golden-haired sister who expressed the opinion that my ancestor was not in his right mind," said Mr. Presby. "I am inclined to that belief myself. I wash my hands of the whole affair! Come, let us go below. This air here suffocates me."