“It is there.”
She looked down into the hole and then at Brent.
“You are a man of your word, monsieur. I thank you.”
Brent spaded out a little more of the soil, and then went on his hands and knees and began to grope in the hole. First he lifted out a big crock that was full of loose silver, one-franc, two-franc, and five-franc pieces. Below the crock lay a tin trunk painted a yellowish brown. Only a portion of the lid showed—the place where the crock had stood; the rest was covered with earth.
He looked questioningly at Manon Latour.
“Let it stay there,” she said.
And then she laughed.
“You will be thinking me a miser, monsieur, but all that belonged to my husband who is dead.”
“Shall I put the silver back in the same place?”
“Yes,—put it back, if you please, monsieur. That hole will make the safest bank I can think of.”