The melting pot was getting in its work.
Floyd appeared to be making good.
Seeing him tear the cloth wrapping from a magnificent piece of gold plate, superbly embossed and engraved, Nick frowned more darkly and asked:
“Are you going to melt all of that gold plate, Floyd?”
“You can bet I’m going to melt it.”
“That’s a sacrilege.”
“Call it what you like.”
“Such plate could not be replaced in these days. That was the work of some of the finest goldsmiths in Europe. You can do better than melt it, Floyd,” Nick earnestly protested, anxious to save the fine old plate from destruction, if possible.
“How better?” questioned Floyd curiously.
“By selling it back to Waldmere,” said Nick. “He would pay thrice the intrinsic value of the metal.”