Adam, heavy with Wainsworth’s gold, was walking less buoyantly now. He was far out on the flat, heading southward, not exactly toward Boston. Garde watched him yearningly, going, going and never once looking backward to where he had left her.
She could bear no more. She sank down on the moss at the foot of a tree, and leaning against the gnarled old trunk, she covered her face with her hands and cried, heart-brokenly.
Had she watched but a moment longer, she would have seen Adam halt, slowly turn about, and with his hand at his lips gaze toward the woods steadily for fully a minute. Then with a slow gesture he waved a kiss back to where she was and once more went upon his way.
The man had no mind to walk through Boston in daylight, with his violin naked in his hands. Keeping therefore southward, he came at length to the upper part of the harbor. Here he engaged a boatman with a sloop to convey him down to the ship-yard of Captain William Phipps.
The worthy ship-builder soon made him welcome.
“William,” said Adam, “I have replenished the treasury, as I said I might, and I have made up my mind to join you in your treasure-hunting expedition.”
CHAPTER VIII.
PAYING THE FIDDLER.
Assume a cheerfulness, if you have it not, and it may presently grow upon you. This happened to Adam, so that when he left Captain Phipps, to return to the tavern for his breakfast and to seek out the beef-eaters, his mood was almost volatile again. There is much virtue in having something other than one’s troubles to think upon. The sunken treasure afforded Adam a topic.
He made his way to his apartments in the Crow and Arrow by the stairs at the rear. He found the rooms empty. Beef-eaters, bag and baggage were gone. Even the violin-case was not to be found.