.

      “Why didn’t you present me? I’d like to make the acquaintance of a few representative Americans, — I may need them to go bail for me.”

      “Pickering didn’t see me, for one thing; and for another he wouldn’t go bail for you or me if he did. He isn’t built that way.”

      Larry smiled quizzically.

      “You needn’t explain further. The sight of the lady has shaken you. She reminds me of Tennyson:

      “ ‘The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes — ’

      and the rest of it ought to be a solemn warning to you, — many ‘drew swords and died,’ and calamity followed in her train. Bah! these women! I thought you were past all that!”

      “I don’t know why a man should be past it at twenty-seven! Besides, Pickering’s friends are strangers to me. But what became of that Irish colleen you used to moon over? Her distinguishing feature, as I remember her photograph, was a short upper lip. You used to force her upon me frequently when we were in Africa.”

      “Humph! When I got back to Dublin I found that she had married a brewer’s son, — think of it!”

      “Put not your faith in a short upper lip! Her face never inspired any confidence in me.”

      “That will do, thank you. I’ll have a bit more of that mayonnaise if the waiter isn’t dead. I think you said your grandfather died in June. A letter advising you of the fact reached you at Naples in October. Has it occurred to you that there was quite an interim there? What, may I ask, was the executor doing all that time? You may be sure he was taking advantage of the opportunity to look for the red, red gold. I suppose you didn’t give him a sound drubbing for not keeping the cables hot with inquiries for you?”

      He eyed me in that disdain for my stupidity which I have never suffered from any other man.

      “Well, no; to tell the truth, I was thinking of other things during the interview.”

      “Your grandfather should have provided a guardian for you, lad. You oughtn’t to be trusted with money. Is that bottle empty? Well, if that person with the fat neck was your friend Pickering, I’d have a care of what’s coming to me. I’d be quite sure that Mr. Pickering hadn’t made away with the old gentleman’s boodle, or that it didn’t get lost on the way from him to me.”

      “The time’s running now, and I’m in for the year. My grandfather was a fine old gentleman, and I treated him like a dog. I’m going to do what he directs in that will no matter what the size of the reward may be.”

      “Certainly; that’s the eminently proper thing for you to do. But, — but keep your wits about you. If a fellow with that neck can’t find money where money has been known to exist, it must be buried pretty deep. Your grandfather was a trifle eccentric, I judge, but not a fool by any manner of means. The situation appeals to my imagination, Jack. I like the idea of it, — the lost treasure and the whole business. Lord, what a salad that is! Cheer up, comrade! You’re as grim as an owl!”

      Whereupon we fell to talking of people and places we had known in other lands.

      We spent the next day together, and in the evening, at my hotel, he criticized my effects while I packed, in his usual ironical vein.

      “You’re not going to take those things with you, I hope!” He indicated the rifles and several revolvers which I brought from the closet and threw upon the bed. “They make me homesick for the jungle.”

      He drew from its cover the heavy rifle I had used last on a leopard hunt and tested its weight.

      “Precious little use you’ll have for this! Better let me take it back to The Sod to use on the landlords. I say, Jack, are we never to seek our fortunes together again? We hit it off pretty well, old man, come to think of it, — I don’t like to lose you.”

      He bent over the straps of the rifle-case with unnecessary care, but there was a quaver in his voice that was not like Larry Donovan.

      “Come with me now!” I exclaimed, wheeling upon him.

      “I’d rather be with you than with any other living man, Jack Glenarm, but I can’t think of it. I have my own troubles; and, moreover, you’ve got to stick it out there alone. It’s part of the game the old gentleman set up for you, as I understand it. Go ahead, collect your fortune, and then, if I haven’t been hanged in the meantime, we’ll join forces later. There’s no chap anywhere with a pleasanter knack at spending money than your old friend L. D.”

      He grinned, and I smiled ruefully, knowing that we must soon part again, for Larry was one of the few men I had ever called friend, and this meeting had only quickened my old affection for him.

      “I suppose,” he continued, “you accept as gospel truth what that fellow tells you about the estate. I should be a little wary if I were you. Now, I’ve been kicking around here for a couple of weeks, dodging the detectives, and incidentally reading the newspapers. Perhaps you don’t understand that this estate of John Marshall Glenarm has been talked about a good bit.”

      “I didn’t know it,” I admitted lamely. Larry had always been able to instruct me about most matters; it was wholly possible that he could speak wisely about my inheritance.

      “You couldn’t know, when you were coming from the Mediterranean on a steamer. But the house out there and the mysterious disappearance of the property have been duly discussed. You’re evidently an object of some public interest,” — and he drew from his pocket a newspaper cutting. “Here’s a sample item.” He read:

      “John Glenarm, the grandson of John Marshall Glenarm, the eccentric millionaire who died suddenly in Vermont last summer, arrived on the Maxinkuckee from Naples yesterday. Under the terms of his grandfather’s will, Glenarm is required to reside for a year at a curious house established by John Marshall Glenarm near Lake Annandale, Indiana.

      This provision was made, according to friends of the family, to test young Glenarm’s staying qualities, as he has, since his graduation from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology five years ago, distributed a considerable fortune left him by his father in contemplating the wonders of the old world. It is reported — ”

      “That will do! Signs and wonders I have certainly beheld, and if I spent the money I submit that I got my money back.”

      I paid my bill and took a hansom for the ferry, — Larry with me, chaffing away drolly with his old zest. He crossed with me, and as the boat drew out into the river a silence fell upon us, — the silence that is possible only between old friends. As I looked back at the lights of the city, something beyond the sorrow at parting from a comrade touched me. A sense of foreboding, of coming danger, crept into my heart. But I was going upon the tamest possible excursion; for the first time in my life I was submitting to the direction of another, — albeit one who lay in the grave. How like my grandfather it was, to die leaving this compulsion upon me! My mood changed suddenly, and as the boat bumped at the pier I laughed.

      “Bah! these men!” ejaculated Larry.

      “What men?” I demanded, giving my bags to a porter.

      “These men who are in love,” he said. “I know the signs, — mooning, silence, sudden inexplicable laughter! I hope I’ll not be in jail when you’re married.”

      “You’ll be in a long time if they hold you for that. Here’s my train.”

      We talked of old times, and of future meetings, during the few minutes that remained.

      “You can write me at my place of rustication,” I said, scribbling “Annandale, Wabana County, Indiana,” on a card. “Now if you need me at any time I’ll come to you wherever you are. You understand that, old man. Good-by.”

      “Write me, care of my father — he’ll have my address, though this last row of mine made him pretty hot.”

      I passed through the gate and down the long train to my sleeper.