I put my head down through the hatchway and called to Cynthia to come on deck. I always called her Cynthia to myself. What I said was:
"Come up, Miss Archer; I can see Christophe's castle."
"You can't!" she said. These words were uttered, I was convinced, more in astonishment than in contradiction. They issued from the funnel of a white cotton sunbonnet. The funnel appeared above the hatchcombings, then a pair of shoulders incased in blue dungaree followed suit, and, finally, the tall figure of Miss Cynthia Archer emerged from the open hatchway and stepped lightly on to the deck.
"Where is it?" she asked.
"I will answer that question if you will answer mine," I responded.
"I was never good at guessing riddles," she said.
"It's no riddle," returned I.
"Oh, the same old question!" hazarded Cynthia. The handsome gray eyes looked out questioningly from the depths of the funnel. I nodded appealingly.
"You've got me up here under false pretences," said Cynthia. "I will go below again. I don't believe there is any castle."
"There is, indeed, Miss Archer." I held the spyglass tightly under my arm. "I will show where if you will answer me."