“That’s the greatest treasure that ever rested on my desk,” he whispered. “We must get them to the vault for the night. And you say they belong to Kirk’s friend, the old Don?”
“I will tell you,” said Pant. Sitting on the edge of a chair, leaning far forward, muscles tense, eyes aglow, he told the story of the beaten silver box from beginning to end.
“Well,” sighed the magnate when the tale was told. “That’s quite a yarn. Wouldn’t believe a word of it if it weren’t for this.” He touched the silver box.
“Legally, in a court of law,” he said, rubbing his forehead thoughtfully, “your old Don wouldn’t have much chance. You could hold the pearls. Anyway, in this case possession is nine points of the law. You have only to pay the duty on them, then sell them.”
“But I don’t want—”
“You want to do the square thing,” the magnate interrupted. “Then why not call it a case of salvage, and split the proceeds fifty-fifty. That will give each of you more money than you are likely to have any use for, and certainly more than you need.
“If your grandfather is interested in chicle,” he added, “tell him I’ll sell you an interest in our Company. Then in years to come you and Kirk will be partners. Pant and Kirk, Chicle Exporters. How does that sound?” He threw back his head and laughed.
“Great! Wonderful!” they exclaimed together.
The beaten silver box took one more ride that day—to the Custom’s offices. There it was placed in a vault until the value of the pearls could be settled upon.
A few days later the pearls were parcelled out in groups and sold to several dealers for a considerable fortune.