“I’ll explain in a minute,” Billy replied. “I have in mind first to exhibit this to you.” He held up a sheet of paper, which he had drawn from his pocket. It was of about the size of that on which Abernethey’s composition had been written. It showed two irregular lines running across it, drawn by pencil. “Glance at this, if you please,” he directed.
The others did so; but their bewildered expression showed that they were still unenlightened as to the bearing of the scant diagram on the revelation concerning the hidden gold. Billy chuckled again in contemplation of their failure to comprehend. Then, he brought forth a second sheet, and held it, also, for their inspection. In this instance, the paper was turned with its greater length horizontal, and the two lines of the other sheet had been joined, so that the one irregular tracing extended over the full page.
David slapped his thigh with violence.
“By the Lord Harry, it’s a map!” he cried, in glee. “A regular map, Billy, my boy!” His eyes bulged forth until they threatened to jump from their sockets.
Roy’s jaw shot out a bit farther.
“Yes, it’s a map,” he agreed; and his voice was strangely gentle, as it usually was in his moments of greatest excitement. “It’s a map. Bully for Billy!” His face lighted with a charming smile, and his eyes grew soft as he turned them to the rough-hewn face of the discoverer, who appeared highly gratified.
Saxe took the sheet of paper out of his friend’s hand, and studied it with eager eyes. For the first time in days, hope leaped in his breast.
“Yes, it’s a map,” he declared, echoing the others. “But I don’t understand. Tell us, Billy.”
Billy actually preened himself, in an ungainly manner peculiarly his own, and assumed a most pedantic air, as he went forward with the explanation:
“Saxe was sitting here, with his eyes fixed on the old man’s manuscript, but with his mind elsewhere. I was here in my chair, with all the power of my brain concentrated on that same manuscript, trying to get some suggestion for working out the tangle. Was it merely restlessness under repeated failure, or was it an instinct that moved me, or just chance? Anyhow, I got up, and crossed over to Saxe, and stood looking down at the music, although I had every line of it clear in memory—as clear as the written page itself. But, this time, in spite of the perfect recollection I had of it, I saw something new. That’s how the thing started. It was Saxe’s doing.”