Curlie and the college girl were on the island. A curious sort of island it was. The early explorers had not discovered it. There was reason enough for that; it had not been there.
Men had made that island, men and trucks, pile-drivers, dredgers, and more men. The refuse from a great city: ashes, old cans, glass, and the clay from beneath many a skyscraper had gone into its making. And with these, sand, much sand from the bottom of the lake.
It is strange how nature hates ugliness. Men had left this island ugly. Nature had added a touch of beauty. Wind had sifted sand over all. Cans, glass, ashes were buried. Trees and bushes had grown up. And now it was a place where one might stroll with pleasure.
But Curlie and the girl, as you know, had not come here for a stroll.
Almost at once they stumbled upon something. What? They could not tell.
They had climbed over a great heap of rocks, used as a breakwater, and were about to descend an even higher pile when the girl gripped Curlie by the arm and pulled him back. At the same time she put a finger to his lips.
He listened. At first he heard nothing save the distant, indistinct murmur of the city. And then there came the sound of heavy footsteps. After that, silence.
And into that silence came a voice. Low but distinct, it said, “Shall we bury it here?”
The girl gripped Curlie’s arm till it hurt. Yet he made no sound.
His heart raced. Bury what? The package of jewels, to be sure. What luck! Or was it so lucky after all? They were not armed. These were likely to be desperate men—men who stop at nothing.