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

"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

       Table of Contents

CAPTAIN BOTHWELL INTERRUPTS

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      As he moved into the room with his easy, vigorous stride, one could not miss the impression, of his extraordinary physical power.

      I am an outdoor man myself, but I have never seen the day when I was a match for Boris Bothwell at feats of strength. Unusually deep in the chest and wide of shoulder, with long, well-packed arms that gave his big, sinewy hands a tremendous grip, he was not in the least muscle-bound.

      In my junior year I was the champion intercollegiate sprinter of the Pacific coast, but I have done a fifty with Bothwell for no less a stake than my life, and not gained two feet on the man.

      At sight of his cousin he bowed ironically, with the most genial of mocking smiles. To that smile I despair of doing justice. It was not from the lips merely, nor yet was it from the good will in him, but had its birth apparently of some whimsical thought that for the moment lent his face a rare charm. A second bow was for me.

      "Mr. John Sedgwick, I presume?"

      "At your service, sir."

      He removed his coat leisurely and hung it on the back of a chair.

      "Just so. I've had the devil of a time running you down, but here we are at last. And all's well that ends well."

      "You have business with me?" I asked curtly.

      "Even at the risk of interrupting a tête-à-tête with the most charming young lady under heaven." His head dipped again with derisive courtesy toward Miss Wallace. "But I need detain you scarce a moment. You found this morning a paper I had the misfortune to lose. You will allow me to offer a thousand thanks for the very good care you have doubtless taken of it and will permit me to relieve you of it."

      He was the very letter of urbanity, but beneath the velvet of his voice I felt the steel. It lay, too, in the glitter of the cold eyes that gimleted mine sharply.

      Be sure I gave him back his smile and his insolent aplomb.

      "Surely you are mistaken, Captain Bothwell. I recollect finding nothing that belongs to you."

      "We'll waive that point. You found a paper," he answered quietly, drawing up a chair and seating himself astride it with his face to the back.

      "I picked up a paper that fell from the hand of Miss Wallace."

      "Exactly. I speak, of course, in the interest of my cousin. If you have returned it to her my purpose is served."

      Impatient at our fencing, or afraid, perhaps, that I might be deceived by his suavity, the girl cut in tartly:

      "You think you could rob me more successfully next time, Boris?"

      His kindly toleration was a lesson in diplomacy.

      "Fie, fie, Evie! A family difference of opinion. I think we must not trouble Mr. Sedgwick with our little diversions entre nous."

      "Unfortunately, you are a day after the fair, Captain Bothwell. Miss Wallace has already done me the honor to consult me in an advisory capacity."

      I let him have my declaration of war with the airiest manner in the world. My spirits were rising with the nearness of the battle, and I thought it would do our cause not the least harm in the world to let him see I was not a whit afraid to cross blades.

      "Indeed! Then for the matter in hand I may consider you one of the family. I congratulate you, Evie. Shall we say a brother—or a cousin—or——"

      "It isn't necessary to be a cad, Boris," she flung back hotly.

      "Pardon me. You are right—neither necessary nor desirable. I offer regrets." Then of a sudden the apology went out of his face like the flame from a blown candle. He swung curtly around upon me. "Mr. Sedgwick, I must trouble you for the map."

      I will be the last to deny that there was something compelling about the man. He sat there stroking his imperial, while the black eyes of the man held mine with a grip of steel. Masterful he looked, and masterful I found him to the last day of that deadly duel we fought out to a finish.

      In that long moment of suspended animation when only our eyes lived—crossed and felt the temper of each other as with the edge of grinding rapiers—we took each the measure of his foe pretty accurately. If I held my own it was but barely. The best I could claim was a drawn battle.

      "Regretfully I am compelled to decline your request."

      "It is not a request but a demand. Come, sir, the map!" he repeated more harshly.

      That he would somehow back his demand I did not for an instant doubt, though as to how I was still in the dark.

      "Let me set you right, Captain Bothwell. This is