Chapter Thirty Four.
The Red Bull of the Borgias.
The seventeenth day of September—the day upon which the sun would lead us to the discovery of the buried casket—dawned grey and overcast.
The instant I awoke I rushed to my window and looked out upon a sunless scene. Dark rain-clouds were everywhere, and my heart sank within me at the prospect of a wet and dismal day. The previous day we had spent in making careful inquiries in the neighbourhood regarding the reappearance of our enemies, whom we expected might try and take us by surprise. The only fact we could fathom was that Grierson, the ironmonger, had sent the tools to Kelton Mains, and been paid for them by a money order posted at Dumfries; but the farmer at Kelton knew nothing of them, it seemed, but had received them expecting someone sent by the laird to call for them. We had written a line to Sammy Waldron, at Crailloch, overnight, and expected him to cycle over during the morning. He would, of course, be excited over what was occurring, for he knew nothing except that Fred, his host, was away on some mysterious errand.
When I came down, rain was falling, and the greyness of the morning was certainly mirrored in the faces of all three of us.
”‘Rain before seven, shine before eleven,’” remarked Walter, trying to cheer us; but we ate our meal almost in silence, until Sammy, hot and covered with mud, burst in upon us.
“What in the name of fortune does all this mean?” he cried, surprised to find Walter and myself. “I thought you two fellows had returned to town. The whole house is on tenter-hooks regarding Fred’s whereabouts. I got your note at seven-thirty, and slipped away without any breakfast and without a word to anyone except Connie.”
“Look here, Sammy!” exclaimed Fred, “we’re going this afternoon to do a bit of secret digging—after a buried treasure.”