“I’m not sure that I believe this myself,” Miss Swenster warned, “but at least the story was handed down to me. As you may know, the pearls were willed to my mother, Rose Swenster. That was her maiden name, of course. She married young and was divorced soon after my birth. She took back her maiden name and I always used it too.
“But to return to the pearls. My mother never had them. Her sister, Florence, felt that she had been cheated in the will. She was so beside herself that she actually hid the pearls, saying that if she could not have them, they should never be worn by my mother.”
“How mean!” Cara exclaimed.
“Perhaps the story isn’t true,” Miss Swenster smiled. “My mother never mentioned the pearls to me. I learned the tale from the nursemaid who cared for me after Mother’s death.”
“And Florence never told where she hid the pearls?” Madge probed.
“No, a short time later she fell ill. When she realized she could not get well, she tried to tell what she had done with the pearls, but failed.”
“No one had the slightest hint what became of them?” Cara questioned.
“According to the story, I believe an old Negro caretaker was supposed to know something about it. His name was George Andrew Jackson. He must have been seventy at the time Florence died. At any rate he was very forgetful and either would not or could not tell what became of the pearls.”
“Was a search never made?” Madge inquired.
“Oh, dear me, yes. Every inch of the house was gone over and the grounds were carefully searched. As a child, I used to think perhaps I could restore the Swenster fortunes. ‘Hunt the pearls’ was our favorite game.”