“We owe Masters gratitude for some thrills,” David said cheerfully. “And anyhow, he’s got his deserts.”
Roy was on the point of saying something candid anent the dead engineer. But his eyes met those of May Thurston, and he forgot hate, and remembered only love.
Saxe spoke again presently, with a meditative air, though Margaret thought that she could detect a twinkle deep in the gray eyes.
“Roy was right in his idea about the solution of the mystery coming by psychic impression. It did. The curious part is that the one to receive the subtle suggestion from the world beyond was the last person to be suspected of anything of the kind—a kind so contrary to pure reason.”
“What’s that?” Billy Walker demanded.
“Why, about the cipher,” Saxe explained, placidly. “Billy, tell us the truth. Search your memory well. Didn’t you first have the idea that the music had something to do with the hiding-place of the gold, and then didn’t you dig out the reasons to justify that idea—after you had it?”
“Of all the preposterous—” the sage began stormily.
But Saxe interrupted ruthlessly:
“Carefully! Search your memory, Billy. Didn’t the idea come first, the reasons afterward? Aren’t you psychically sensitive, Billy Walker? Confess!”
“Psychic—I!” the seer boomed, outraged. Then, his brow became furrowed with thought. His expression changed to one of dismay. Little by little, this wore away, a dawning satisfaction grew in its stead. Finally, he spoke aloud to himself, unconsciously. “Psychic—I? Well, well!” And Billy Walker smiled.