The Pirate of Panama: A Tale of the Fight for Buried Treasure. William MacLeod Raine

While I waited for my chop I had the map out again, studying it as a schoolboy does a paper-backed novel behind his geography.

      Beneath the map were some closely written lines of directions for finding "itte," whatever that might be. As to that my guess never wavered.

      Whoever had drawn the map had called the peninsula "Doubloon Spit." Why? Clearly because he and his fellow buccaneers had buried there the ill-gotten treasure they had gained from piracy. No doubt the Santa Theresa was a gold ship they had waylaid and sunk.

      At my entrance I had taken a little side table, but the restaurant was filling rapidly. A man stopped beside my table and took off a frogged overcoat with astrakhan trimmings. He hung this and his hat on a rack and sat down in the chair opposite me.

      Instinctively I had covered the map with a newspaper. With amazement I now discovered that my vis-à-vis was the villain of the Adventure of the Young Lady and the Chart, as the author of the "New Arabian Nights" would have phrased it.

      The man was in a vile humor, so much could be seen at a glance. Without doing me the honor of a single glance he stared moodily in front of him, his heavy black brows knit to a grim frown.

      He was a splendid specimen of physical manhood, big and well-muscled, with a broad, flat back and soldierly carriage. That he was a leader of men was an easy deduction, though the thin, straight mouth and the hard glitter in the black eyes made the claim that he would never lead toward altruism.

      In quick, short puffs he smoked a cigarette, and as soon as he had finished it he lit a second. Men all around us were waiting their turn, but I observed that the first lift of his finger brought an attendant.

      "Tenderloin with mushrooms—asparagus tips—strong black coffee—cognac," he ordered with the curtness of an army officer snapping commands at a trooper. His voice was rich and cultivated, but had a very distinctly foreign quality in spite of the fact that his English was faultless.

      I took advantage of the distraction of the waiter's presence to slip the map from the table into my pocket. After this I breathed freer, for it is scarcely necessary to say that in the struggle for the map—and by this time I had quite made up my mind that there would be fought out a campaign for its possession—I was wholly on the side of the young woman.

      But as yet I knew none of the facts, and so was not in a position to engage with him to advantage. I called for the check and took my coat and hat from the rack.

      Then I made my first mistake. I should have carried my raincoat to the door before putting it on. As I buttoned it recognition began to struggle faintly into his eyes. I waited for no further developments.

      But as I went out of the door I could see him hurrying forward. Instantly I turned to the right, dodged into a tobacco shop, ran swiftly through it to the surprise of the proprietor, and found myself in an alley. I took this in double-quick time and presently had lost myself in the hurrying crowds on Kearney Street. Five minutes later I was in the elevator on the way to our office.

      I 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