"That's the line," says I. "Stick to that. But I wouldn't chatter about it to strangers."
Rupert smiles indulgent.
"Thank you," says he. "You need not fear. I have kept my secret for three years—and I still hold it."
He's a dramatic cuss, Rupert. I leaves him posin' in front of the mirror on the bathroom door, gazin' sort of romantic at himself.
"Not a common, everyday nut," as I explains to Vee that night, when I goes up for my reg'lar Wednesday evenin' call, "but a nut, all the same. Sort of a parlor pirate, too."
"And you think there isn't any buried treasure, after all?" asks Vee.
"Don't it sound simple?" I demands.
"I'm not so sure," says Vee, shakin' her head. "There were pirates on the Florida coast, you know. I've read about them. And—and just fancy, Torchy! If his story were really true!"
"What was the name of that island, again?" puts in Auntie.
Honest, I hadn't thought she was takin' notice at all when I was givin' Vee a full account of my afternoon session with Rupert. She never does chime in much with our talk. And I judged she was too busy with her sweater-knittin' to hear a word. But here she is, askin' details.