The Pirate of Panama (Musaicum Adventure Classics). William MacLeod Raine

set to work resolutely, but my drifting thoughts went back to the military man with the frogged coat, to the distractingly pretty girl who did not want him to have the map, and to that spit of land lapped by Pacific waves in a latitude and longitude that shall be nameless for reasons that will hereafter appear.

      It must have been fifteen minutes after my return that our office boy, Jimmie, came in to tell me that a lady wanted to see me.

      "She's a peach, too," he volunteered with the genial impudence that characterized him.

      This brought me back to earth, a lawyer instead of a treasure seeker, and when my first client crossed the threshold she found me deep in a volume on contracts, eight other large and bulky reference books piled on the table.

      The name on the card Jimmie had handed me was Miss Evelyn Wallace. I rose at once to meet her.

      "You are Mr. John Sedgwick?" asked a soft, Southern voice that fell on my ears like music.

      "I am."

      My bow stopped abruptly. I stifled an exclamation. The young woman was the one I had seen framed in a second-story window some hours earlier.

      "I think you know me by sight," she said, not smiling exactly, but little dimples lurking in her cheeks ready to pounce out at the first opportunity. "That is, unless you have forgotten?"

      Forgotten! I might have told her it would be hard to forget that piquant, oval face of exquisite coloring, and those blue eyes in which the sunshine danced like gold. I might have, but I did not. Instead, I murmured that my memory served me well enough.

      "I have come for the paper you were good enough to take care of for me, Mr. Sedgwick. It belongs to me—the paper you picked up this morning."

      From my pocket I took the document and handed it to her.

      "May I ask how you found out who I was, Miss Wallace?"

      You might have thought that roses had brushed her cheeks and left their color there.

      "I asked a policeman," she confessed, just a little embarrassed.

      "To find you a man in a gray ulster, medium height, weight, and complexion," I laughed.

      "I had seen you come from the Graymount once or twice, and by describing you to the landlady he discovered who you were and where you worked," she explained.

      Her touch of shyness had infected me, too. It was as if unwittingly I had intruded on her private affairs, had seen that morning an incident not meant for the eyes of a stranger. We avoided the common interest between us, though both of us were thinking of it.

      Later I was to learn that she had been as eager to approach the subject as I. But she could not very well invite a stranger into her difficulty any more than I could push myself into her confidence.

      "I hope you find the paper exactly as you left it, or rather as it left you," I stammered at last.

      She had put the map in her hand-bag, but at my words she took it out, not to verify my suggestion but to prolong for a moment her stay in order to find courage to broach the difficulty. For she had come to the office in desperation, determined to confide in me if she liked my face and felt I was to be trusted.

      "Yes. It was torn at the moment I threw it away. My cousin has the other part. It is a map."

      "So I noticed. My impression was that the paper was yours. I examined it to see whether it held your name and address."

      Her blue eyes met mine shyly.

      "Did it—interest you at all?"

      "Indeed, and it did. Nothing in a long time has interested me more."

      I might have made an exception in favor of the owner of the document, but once more I decided to move with discretion.

      "You understood it?" Her soft voice trailed upward so that her declaration was in essence a question.

      "I am thinking it was only a wild guess I made."

      "I'd like right well to hear it."

      My eyes met hers.

      "Buried treasure."

      With eager little nods she assented.

      "Right, sir; treasure buried by pirates early in the nineteenth century. We have reason to think it has never been lifted."

      "Good reason?"

      "The best. Except the copy I have, this map is the only one in existence. Only four men saw the gold hidden. Two of them were killed by the others within the hour. The third was murdered by his companion some weeks later. The fourth—but it is a long story. I must not weary you with it."

      "Weary me," I cried, and I dare swear my eyes were shining. But there I pulled myself up. "You're right. I had forgotten. You don't know me. There is no reason why you should tell me the story."

      "That is true," she asserted. "It is of no concern to you."

      That she was a little rebuffed by my words was plain. I made haste to explain them.

      "I am meaning that there is no reason why you should trust me."

      "Except your face," she answered impulsively. "Sir, you are an honest gentleman. Chance, or fate, has thrown you in my way. I must go to somebody for advice. I have no friends in San Francisco that can help me—none nearer than Tennessee. You are a lawyer. Isn't it your business to advise?"

      "If you put it that way. But it is only fair to say that I am a very inexperienced one. To be frank, I've never had a client of my own."

      Faith, her smile was warm as summer sunshine.

      "Then I'll be your first, unless you refuse the case. But it may turn out dangerous. I have no right to ask you to take a risk for me"—she blushed divinely—"especially since I am able to pay so small a fee."

      "My fee shall be commensurate with my inexperience," I smiled. "And are you thinking for a moment that I would let my first case get away from me at all? As for the danger—well, I'm an Irishman."

      "But it isn't really a law case at all."

      "So much the better. I'll have a chance of winning it then."

      "It will be only a chance."

      "We'll turn the chance into a certainty."

      "You seem very sure, sir."

      "I must, for confidence is all the stock in trade I have," was my gay answer.

      From her bag Miss Wallace took the map and handed it to me.

      "First, then, you must have this put in a safety-deposit vault until we need it. I'm sure attempts will be made to get it."

      "By whom?"

      "By my cousin. He'll stick at nothing. If you had met him you would understand. He is a wonder. I'm afraid of him. His name is Boris Bothwell—Captain Bothwell, lately cashiered from the British army for conduct unbecoming a gentleman. In one of his rages he nearly killed a servant."

      "But you are not English, are you?"

      "He is my second cousin. He isn't English, either. His father was a Scotchman, his mother a Russian."

      "That explains the name—Boris Bothwell."

      Like an echo the words came back to me from over my shoulder.

      "Capt. Boris Bothwell to see you, Mr. Sedgwick."

      In surprise I swung around. The office boy had come in quietly, and hard on his heels was a man in a frogged overcoat with astrakhan trimmings. Not half an hour earlier I had sat opposite him at luncheon.

      Chapter II

       Captain Bothwell Interrupts

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