They handed the plate around, magnificent old silverware that was worth a small fortune. And they were still admiring it when a dinner gong sounded downstairs.
XX—SIR PETER’S PARTY
When none of his guests could eat any more of the delicious ice cream that topped off a wonderful dinner, the buff-coated gentleman rose from his chair at the head of the table. They had dined from the famous Cotterell silver service, and the candles that now illuminated the shining mahogany table were fastened in exquisite candlesticks that had been in the treasure chest.
The buff-coated gentleman raised a glass that stood beside his plate. “My friends,” he said, “our guests from Barmouth tell us that the Revolution is over; so there would be no object in keeping the Cotterell treasure hidden any longer. But it was well hidden. So well hidden indeed that it required a genius like Benjamin Sully to find out where it was. I propose a toast to that master detective, Benjamin Sully.”
All, except Ben, lifted their glasses and drank, nodding at the dark-haired boy.
Then Ben stood up. “I propose a toast to Sir Peter,” he said, “who surely does know how to give people a good time.”
That toast was drunk also. Then Tuckerman got to his feet. “Sir Peter, I am proud of you,” he said. “I don’t believe a more delightful party was ever given in Cotterell Hall.”
The man at the head of the table smiled. “I’m glad to hear you say that, John Tuckerman,” he responded. “For, in a way, I felt that to-night I’d been usurping a place that was rightfully yours. For, of course, this is your house, and this is your silver plate.”
“Then who are you?” piped up Sarah Hooper from the foot of the table.
“I think he’s Roderick Fitzhugh,” said Tom, who sat beside Sarah.