CHAPTER XVPUZZLING RHYMES
“As I was saying,” continued Sinclair, “Mr. and Mrs. Hartley lived happily at Cromarty Manor. Three beautiful children were born to them, who have since grown to be the superior specimens of humanity you see before you. I am the oldest, and, as I may modestly remark, the flower of the family.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” commented Patty, looking affectionately at Mabel.
“Well, anyway, as was only natural, the search for that hidden fortune went on at times. Perhaps a visitor would stir up the interest afresh, and attempts would be made to discover new meaning in Uncle Marmaduke’s last words. And it was my father who succeeded in doing this. He sat in the library one day, looking over the old set of Dickens’ works, which always had a fascinating air of holding the secret. He had not lived here long then, and was not very familiar with the books on the library shelves, but looking about he discovered anotherset of Dickens, a much newer set, and the volumes were bound in cloth, but almost entirely covered by a gilded decoration. Wait, I’ll show you one.”
Sinclair rose, and going into the library, returned in a moment with a copy of “Barnaby Rudge.” It was bound in green cloth, but so ornate was the gold tooling that little green could be seen.
“Dickens—gold——” murmured Patty, her eyes shining as she realised the new meaning in the words.
“Yes; and, sure enough that was what Uncle Marmaduke meant. Just think! For fifteen years that set of books had stood untouched on the shelves, while people nearly wore out the older set, hunting for a clue to the fortune!”
“It’s great!” declared Patty; “go on!”
“Well, this set of Dickens proved extremely interesting. Between the leaves of the books were papers of all sorts. Bills, deeds, banknotes, memoranda, and even a will.”
“Then you had the fortune, at last?”
“No such luck. The banknotes and the few securities in the books amounted to a fair sum, which was gratefully appreciated by myparents, but as to the bulk of the fortune, it only made matters more tantalising than ever.”
“Why?” asked Patty.
“One of the papers was a will, properly executed and witnessed, leaving all the fortune of which Uncle Marmaduke died possessed, to my mother. Then, instead of a definite statement of where this money was deposited, were some foolish jingles hinting where to find it. These rhymes would be interesting as an old legend, or in a story book, but to find them instead of a heap of money, was, to say the least, disappointing.”
“And did you never find the money?”
“Never. And, of course, now we never will. Remember all this happened twenty years ago. I mean the discovery of the papers. Of course, the money was hidden more than thirty-five years ago.”
“And do you mean to say that you people are living here, in your own house, and your own money is hidden here somewhere, and you can’t find it?”
“Exactly as you state it.”
“Well!I’dfind it, if I had to tear the whole house down.”
“Wait a minute, Miss Impetuosity. We don’t think it’s in the house.”
“Oh, out of doors?”
“You’re good at puzzles, I know, but just wait until you hear the directions that came with the package, and I think you’ll admit it’s a hopeless problem.”
“May she see them, Mother?” said Mabel. “Will you get them out for us?”
“Not to-night, dear. I’ll show the old papers to Patty, some other time; but now Sinclair can tell her the lines just as well.”
“Of all the papers in the books,” Sinclair went on, “only two seemed to be directions for finding the money, although others vaguely hinted that the fortune was concealed. And still others gave the impression that Uncle Marmaduke meant to tell mother all about it; but as his death came upon him so suddenly, of course he could not do this. On these two papers are rhymes, which we children have known by heart all our lives. One is:
“‘Great treasure lieth in the poke
Between the fir trees and the oak.’
“You see uncle was a true poet.”
“What does the poke mean?” asked Patty.
“Oh, a poke is a pocket; or a hiding-place of any sort. Of course, this information sent father to digging around every fir tree and oak tree on the place. As you know, there are hundreds of both kinds of trees, so the directions can’t be called explicit.”
“But,” said Patty, wrinkling her brow, “it says ‘between the fir trees and the oak,’ as if it meant a clump of firs and only one big oak.”
“Yes; that’s what has been surmised. And many a separate oak tree that stands near a group of firs has been thoroughly investigated. But wait; there’s another clue. On a separate paper these words are written:
“‘Above the stair, across the hall,
Between the bedhead and the wall,
A careful searching will reveal
The noble fortune I conceal.’
“There, could anything be plainer than that?”
“Then the money isinthe house!” exclaimed Patty.
“Take your choice. There are the two declarations. It may be he concealed the money in one place, and then transferred it to another.Or it may be he put part in the ground, and part in the house.”
“But, ‘between the bedhead and the wall,’ is so definite. There are not so very many bedrooms, you know.”
“True enough. And of course, when my father found that paper, he went directly upstairs, crossed the hall, and so reached Uncle Marmaduke’s own bedroom. The furniture had been moved about, but Grandy remembered where the head of the bed stood in Uncle’s time. They searched thoroughly, took up flooring, took down wainscoting, and all that, to no avail.”
“Of course, they tried other ‘bedheads’?”
“Yes, tell her about it, Grandy.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Cromarty, placidly. “All the bedrooms in the house, even the servants’ rooms, were subjected to most careful scrutiny. Although so many years had elapsed, I could remember where the various beds stood when Marmaduke was with us. Behind each, we had the walls sounded, and in some cases, broken into. We even looked for pockets or receptacles of some sort on the backs of the headboards themselves, but never a trace of anything could we find.”
“It’s very exciting!” said Patty; “how can you all be so calm about it? I should think you’d be searching every minute!”
“You must remember, dear,” said Mrs. Hartley, “it’s an old story to us. At first, we were indeed excited. For several years we searched almost continuously. Then hope began to fail, and our investigations became intermittent. Every now and then we would make a fresh attempt, but invariably repeated failures dampened our enthusiasm.”
“It’ssointeresting,” sighed Patty. “Can’t we get up a little of the old enthusiasm, and do some searching while I’m here?”
“Indeed, we can,” cried Bob. “Would you prefer an excavating party, with picks and spades, or an indoor performance in the old bedrooms?”
“Both,” declared Patty. “Of course I know how absurd it is to go over the ground that has already been worn threadbare, but—but, oh! if wecouldfind it!”
Grandma Cromarty smiled.
“Forgive me, dearie,” she said, “but I’ve heard those sentiments from all my guests to whom we have told the story, for the past thirty-five years; and though I don’t want toseem ungrateful for your interest, I feel it my duty to warn you there is no hope.”
“Oh, yes there ishope, Grandy,” said Sinclair, “but there is nothing else. There’s no probability, scarcely a possibility, but we’llnevergive up hope.”
“Never!” agreed Bob; but Mabel’s expression plainly showed that she hadn’t the faintest glimmering of a hope.
“It does seem so strange,” said Patty, thoughtfully, “to have the two directions, and both so explicit. No, not explicit, they’re not that, but both so definite.”
“Hardly definite, either,” said Bob, “except that they seem to reveal the fact that thereisa fortune concealed about the place. Oh! it makes me frantic! I feel so helpless.”
“There’s no use storming about it, Bob, my boy,” said his mother. “And, Patty, you mustn’t set us down as too mercenary in this matter. But I think you know that we, as a family, long for the means which would enable us to keep up this dear old place as it should be, and not let its beautiful parks and gardens go uncared for and neglected.”
“I do know!” cried Patty; “and it makes me furious to think that the money—your ownmoney—is perhaps within your reach, and yet—you can’t get it! Oh, why didn’t Mr. Marmaduke say just where he put it!”
“He did,” said Bob, smiling.
“Yes, so he did. Well, I’d tear up every square foot of ground on the whole estate, then.”
“Remember, Patty,” said Sinclair, in his quiet way, “there are nearly ten thousand acres in all; and except for meadowlands and water, there are oaks and firs on nearly every acre. The fortune itself would scarcely pay for all that labour.”
“Well, then, I’d tear the house to pieces.”
“Oh, no you wouldn’t,” said Mrs. Hartley; “and beside, that has almost been done. My husband had so much of the woodwork and plaster removed, that I almost feared he would bring the house down about our ears. And it is such a big, rambling old place, it is hopeless to think of examining it really thoroughly.”
Patty glanced around at the great hall she was in. The groined ceiling, with its intricate carvings at the intersections; the cornice carved in deep relief, with heraldic bosses, and massive patterns; the tall columns and pilasters; allseemed part of an old monument which it would be desecration to break into.
“I wonder where it is,” she said; “indoors or out.”
“I think it’s out of doors,” said Sinclair. “I think uncle hid it in the house first, and then wrote his exquisite poem about the poke. Perhaps it was merely a pocket of leather or canvas, that hung behind the headboard of his own bed. In that case all prying into the walls would mean nothing. Then, I think, as that was only a temporary hiding-place, he later buried it in the ground between some special oak tree and fir tree, or trees. I think, too, he left, or meant to leave some more of his poetry to tell which trees, but owing to his sudden taking off, he didn’t do this.”
“Sinclair,” said Bob, “as our American friend, Mr. Dooley, says, ‘Yer opinions is inthrestin’, but not convincin’.’ As opinions, they’re fine; but I wish I had some facts. If uncle had only left a cryptogram or a cipher, I’d like it better than all that rhymed foolishness.”
“Perhaps it isn’t foolishness,” said Patty; “I think, with Sinclair, it’s likely Mr. Marmaduke wrote the indoor one first, and then changed the hiding-place and wrote the other. But howcould he do all this hiding and rehiding without being seen?”
“I went up to London every season,” said Mrs. Cromarty; “and, of course, took Emmeline with me. Marmaduke always stayed here, and thus had ample opportunity to do what he would. Indeed, he usually had great goings-on while we were away. One year, he had the Italian garden laid out. Another year, he had a new porter’s lodge built. This was done the last year of his life, and as he had masons around so much at that time, repairing the cellars and all that, we thought later, that he might have had a hiding-place arranged in the wall behind the head of his bed. But, if so, we never could find it.”
“And have you dug under the trees much?” persisted Patty, who could not accept the hopelessness of the others.
“Dug!” exclaimed Bob, “I’ve blistered my hands by the hour. I’ve viewed fir trees and oaks, until I know every one on the place by heart. I’ve trudged a line from oaks to firs, and starting in the middle, I’ve dug both ways. But I’m nearly ready to give up. Not quite, though. I’m making a thorough search of all the books in the library, on the chance of findingsome other message. But there are such a lot of books! I’ve been at it for three years now, off and on, and I’m only three-quarters way round. And not a paper yet, except a few old letters and bills.”
“I’ll help you, Bob,” said Patty; “oh, I’d love to do something toward the search, even if I don’t find a thing. I’ll begin to-morrow. You tell me what books you’ve done.”
“I will, indeed. I’ll be jolly glad to have help. And you can do as much as you like, before your young enthusiasm wears off.”
“I’ll do it, gladly,” said Patty, and then they discovered that the evening had flown away, and it was bedtime.
As they went upstairs, Mabel followed Patty to her room and sat down for a little good-night chat.
Patty’s eyes were shining with excitement, and as she took off her hair ribbon, and folded it round her hand, she said:
“Even if we don’t find anything, you’ll be no worse off, and it’s such fun to hunt.”
“They didn’t tell you all, Patty,” said Mabel, in a pathetic tone, and Patty turned quickly to her friend.
“Why, what do you mean?”
“I mean this. Of course, we’ve never been rich, and we’ve never been able to do for the place what ought to be done for it; but we have been able to live here. And now—now, if we can’t get any more money, we—we can’t stay here! Oh, Patty!”
Patty’s arms went round Mabel, as the poor child burst into tears.
“Yes,” she said, sobbing, “some of mother’s business interests have failed—it’s all come on lately, I don’t entirely understand it—but, anyway, we may soon have to leave Cromarty, and oh, Patty, howcouldwe live anywhere else? and what’s worse, howcouldwe have any one else living here?”
“Leave Cromarty Manor! Where you’ve all lived so long—I mean your ancestors and all! Why, Mabel, you can’t do that!”
“But we’ll have to. We haven’t money enough to pay the servants—or, at least, we won’t have, soon.”
“Are you sure of all this, dear? Does Mrs. Cromarty expect to go away?”
“It’s all uncertain. We don’t know. But mother’s lawyer thinks we’d better sell or let the place. Of course we won’t sell it, but itwould be almost as bad to let it. Think of strangers here!”
“I can’t think of such a thing! It seems impossible. But perhaps matters may turn out better than you think. Perhaps you won’t have to go.”
“That’s what Sinclair says—and mother. But I’m sure the worst will happen.”
“Now, Mabel, stop that! I won’t let you look on the dark side. And, anyway, you’re not to think any more about it to-night. You won’t sleep a wink if you get nervous and worried. Now put it out of your mind, and let’s talk about the croquet party to-morrow at Grace Meredith’s. How are we going over?”
“You and I are to drive in the pony cart, and the others will go in the carriage.”
“That will be lovely. Now, what shall we wear?”
Thus, tactfully, Patty led Mabel’s thoughts away from her troubles, for the time, at least, and when the two friends parted for the night, they both went healthily and happily to sleep.
CHAPTER XVITHE CROQUET PARTY
The next afternoon the two girls started in the pony cart for the Merediths.
Patty loved to play croquet, and though it greatly amused her to hear the English people pronounce the word as if it were spelledcroky, yet not to appear peculiar, she spoke it that way too.
The party was a large one, and the games were arranged somewhat after the fashion of a tournament.
Patty’s partner was Tom Meredith, and as he played a fairly good game they easily beat their first opponents.
But later on they found themselves matched against Mabel Hartley and a young man named Jack Stanton. Mr. Stanton was an expert, and Mabel played the best game Patty had ever seen a girl play.
“It’s no use,” said Patty, good-naturedly, as they began the game, “Tom and I never can win against you two.”
“Don’t despair,” said Tom, encouragingly, “There’s many a slip, you know.”
The game progressed until, when Tom and Patty were about three-quarters of the way around, Mabel was passing through her last wicket and Mr. Stanton was a “rover.”
“Be careful, now,” said Mr. Stanton, as Mabel aimed to send her ball through the arch. “It’s a straight shot, and a long shot, and you’re liable to touch the post.”
And that’s just what happened. As Mabel’s swift, clear stroke sent the ball straight through the wicket, it went spinning on and hit squarely the home stake.
“Jupiter! that’s bad luck!” exclaimed Jack Stanton. “They’ll jolly well beat us now. But never mind, perhaps I can slip through yet.”
But he couldn’t. The fact that they had two plays to his one, gave Patty and Tom a great advantage.
Tom was a clever manager, and Patty followed his directions implicitly. So they played a defensive game, and spent much time keeping Stanton’s ball away from the positions he desired. The result was that Tom and Patty won, but their success was really owing to Mabel’s mistake in going out.
The test was to win two games out of three, so with one game in favor of Patty’s side they began the next.
Patty was considered a good croquet player in America, but in England the rules of the game, as well as the implements, were so different that it seriously impeded her progress.
The wickets were so narrow that the ball could barely squeeze through if aimed straight, and a side shot through one was impossible.
But all this added to the zest, and it was four very eager young people who strove for the victory.
The second game went easily to Mabel and Jack Stanton, and then the third, the decisive one, was begun. According to the laws of the tournament, this was the final game. The opponents had already vanquished all the other contestants, and now, pitted against each other, were playing for the prize.
Patty knew in her heart she would be glad to have Mabel win it, and yet, so strong was her love of games, and so enthusiastic her natural desire to succeed, that she tried her best to beat the third game.
All played conservatively. The partners kept together, and progressed evenly. Toward thelast Jack and Mabel began to creep ahead. Tom saw this, and said to Patty: “This is our last chance; if we plod on like this, they’ll calmly walk out and leave us. Unless we can make a brilliant dash of some sort, we are beaten.”
“I don’t believe I can,” said Patty, looking doubtfully at her ball. “It’s my turn, and unless I can hit Mabel’s ball, clear across the grounds, I can’t do anything.”
“That’s just it. Youmusthit Mabel’s ball.”
So Patty aimed carefully, and sent her ball spinning over the ground toward Mabel’s, and missed it by a hair’s breadth!
“Goody!” cried Mabel, and hitting Patty’s ball, she roqueted it back where it had come from.
“Now here’s our very lastest chance,” said Tom, with a groan of despair. “And I’m sure, Patty, I won’t do any better than you did.”
Nor did he. Although not far from Jack’s ball, at which he aimed, there was a wicket in the way, which sent his own ball glancing off at an angle, and he did not hit his opponent.
A minute more, and Jack skilfully sent Mabel’s ball and then his own against the home stake, and the game was over.
The onlookers crowded up and congratulatedthe winners, and offered condolence to Patty and Tom. Patty smiled, and responded merrily. She did not try to lay the blame on the unusual shaped wickets, or short, heavy mallets. She declared that the best players had won, and that she was satisfied. And indeed she was.
When she saw the lovely prize that was given to Mabel, she was deeply thankful that she hadn’t won it. It was a white parasol, of silk and chiffon, with a pearl handle. A really exquisite, dainty affair, and just the very thing Mabel had wanted, but couldn’t afford to buy. As for Patty herself, she had several parasols, and so was delighted that Mabel had won.
But though she truly preferred that Mabel should have the prize, she felt a little chagrined at losing the contest, for like all people who are fond of games and sports, Patty loved to win.
These feelings, though, she successfully concealed, and gave Mabel very sincere and loving congratulations. Mr. Stanton’s prize was a pretty scarf pin, and Tom Meredith loudly bewailed his own misfortune in losing this. Though, really, as the tournament was at his own home, he would not have taken the prize had he won it, but would have passed it on to the one with the next highest record.
The victors were cheered and applauded, and were then led in triumph to the pretty tent where tea was being served.
If Patty had had a shadow of regret that she had not been the honoured one, it was lost sight of in her gladness that it fell to Mabel’s lot.
“You’re a plucky one,” said Tom Meredith, who was observing her closely. “You’re a good loser, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know,” said Patty, thoughtfully. “I want to be, but do you know, I just love to win contests or games. And when I lose—I’m ashamed to say it—but I do feel put out.”
“Of course you do! That’s only natural. And that’s why I say you’re a good loser. If you didn’t care tuppence whether you won or not, it wouldn’t be much to your credit to look smiling and pleasant when you lose. But since youdocare, a whole lot, you’re a jolly plucky girl to take it so well. Now, what can I get for you? An ice?”
“Yes, please,” said Patty, really gratified at Tom’s appreciative words.
“How long are you staying with the Hartleys?” Tom asked, as, returning with ices, he found cosy seats at a small table for himself and Patty.
“Two or three weeks longer, I think. But I shall hate to go away, for I’ve become so interested in their ‘mystery,’ that I can’t stop trying to solve it.”
“Oh, you mean that old affair of the hidden fortune. I don’t believe there’s any at all. I think the old man who pretended to hide it was merely guying them.”
“Oh, no! That can’t be. Why, it all sounds so real and natural. The story of the hiding, I mean.”
“Yes, but why should he want to hide it? Why not bank it decently, like other people?”
“Oh, because he was eccentric. People who are naturally queer or freakish are always hiding things. And I know it’s silly of me, but I’m going to try to find that money.”
“I’ve lots of faith in your energy and perseverance, but I can’t think you’ll succeed in that job. Better try something easier.”
“I don’t think I can say I expect to succeed. But I’m going to try—and—who can tell what might happen?”
“Who, indeed? But you know, of course, that the Cromarty people have been hunting it for nearly forty years.”
“Yes,” said Patty, and her eyes fairly blazedwith determination, “yes—but I am an American!”
Tom Meredith shouted with laughter.
“Good for you, little Stars and Stripes!” he cried. “I’ve always heard of the cleverness of the Yankees, but if you can trace the Cromarty fortune, I’ll believe you a witch, for sure. Aren’t there witches in that New England of yours?”
“I believe there used to be. And my ancestors, some of them, were Salem people. That may be where I get my taste for divination and solving problems. I just love puzzles of all sorts, and if the old Cromarty gentleman had only left a cipher message, it would have been fun to puzzle it out.”
“He did leave messages of some sort, didn’t he? Maybe they are more subtle than you think.”
“I’ve been wondering about that. They might mean something entirely different from what they sound like; but I can’t see any light that way. ‘The headboard of a bed against a wall,’ is pretty practical, and doesn’t seem to mean anything else. And the oak trees and fir trees are there in abundance. But that’s the trouble with them, there are so many.”
“Go on, and do all you can, my child. You’ll get over it the sooner, if you work hard on it at first. We’ve all been through it. Nearly everybody in this part of the country has tried at one time or another to guess the Cromarty riddle.”
“But I’m the first American to try,” insisted Patty, with a twinkle in her eye.
“Quite so, Miss Yankee Doodle Doo; and I wish you success where my own countrymen have failed.”
Tom said this with such a nice, kindly air that Patty felt a little ashamed of her own vaunting attitude. But sometimes Patty showed a decided tendency to over-assuredness in her own powers, and though she tried to correct it, it would spring up now and again. Then the Hartley boys joined them, and all discussion of the missing fortune was dropped.
It was soon time to take leave, and as it was already twilight, Sinclair proposed that he should drive Patty home in the pony cart, and Mabel should return in the carriage.
Mabel quite agreed to this, saying that after her croquet, she did not care to drive. The road lay through a lovely bit of country, and Patty enjoyed the drive home with Sinclair.She always liked to talk with him, he was so gentle and kindly. While not so merry as Bob or as Tom Meredith, Sinclair was an interesting talker, and Patty always felt that she was benefited by his conversation.
He told her much about the country as they drove along, described the life and work of the villagers, and pointed out buildings or other objects of interest.
They passed several fine estates, whose towering mansions could be seen half hidden by trees, or boldly placed on a summit.
“But no place is as beautiful as Cromarty,” said Sinclair, and Patty entirely agreed with them.
“Is it true that you may have to leave it?” she asked, thinking it wiser to refer to it casually.
Sinclair frowned.
“Who’s been talking to you?” he said; “Mabel, I suppose. Well, yes, there is a chance that we’ll have to let it for a term of years. I hope not, but I can’t tell yet. But even if so, it will be only temporary. As soon as I get fairly established in my career, I hope to make money enough to take care of it all. A few years hence, when I’m on my feet, and Bob’sthrough college, it will be easier all round. But if some business troubles that are now impending don’t blow over, there’ll be no income to keep things going, and we’ll have to—to——But thatshan’thappen!”
Sinclair spoke almost desperately, and Patty saw his fingers clench around the reins he was holding.
“I wonder,” said Patty slowly, for she was not quite sure how what she was about to say would be received. “I wonder, Sinclair, if we’re not good friends enough, you and I, for me to speak plainly to you.”
The young man gave her a quick, earnest glance.
“Go on,” he said, briefly.
“It’s only this,” said Patty, still hesitating, “my father has lots of money—couldn’t you—couldn’t he lend you some?”
Sinclair looked at her squarely now, and spoke in low, stern tones.
“Never suggest such a thing again. The Cromartys do not borrow.”
“Not even from a friend?” said Patty, softly.
“Not even from a friend,” repeated Sinclair, but his voice was more gentle. “You don’t understand, I suppose,” he went on, “but we wouldleave Cromarty for ever before we would stay on such terms.”
“No,” said Patty, “I don’t understand. I should think you’d be as glad to accept a friend’s help as he would be to offer it.”
“If you’d do me a real kindness, Patty, you’ll never even mention such an idea again. I know you mean well and I thank you, but it’s absolutely impossible.”
“Then there’s only one other way out of the difficulty,” said Patty, with an effort at lightness; “and that’s to find your buried fortune.”
“Ah, that would be a help,” cried Sinclair, also assuming a gayer tone. “If you’ll help us to do that, I’ll set up a memorial tablet to your cleverness.”
“Where will you set it? Between the fir trees and the oak?”
“Yes, if you find the fortune there.”
“But if I find it behind the headboard, that’s no sort of a place for a tablet!”
“You can choose your own spot for your Roll of Fame, and I’ll see to it that the memorial is a worthy one.”
“And will you put fresh flowers on it every day?”
“Yes, indeed; for if—I meanwhen, you findthe fortune for us, the gardens will have immediate attention.”
“Then I must set to work at once,” said Patty, with pretended gravity, but in her heart she registered a mental vow to try in earnest to fulfil the promise given in jest.
CHAPTER XVIITHE GRIFFIN AND THE ROSE
Although the Hartleys had practically given up all hope of ever finding the hidden money, they couldn’t help being imbued with Patty’s enthusiasm.
Indeed, it took little to rouse the sleeping fires of interest that never were entirely extinguished.
But though they talked it over by the hour there seemed to be nothing to do but talk.
One day, Patty went out all by herself, determined to see if she couldn’t find some combination of an oak tree and a group of firs that would somehow seem especially prominent.
But after looking at a score or more of such combinations, she realised that task was futile.
She looked at the ground under some of them, but who could expect a mark of any kind on the ground after nearly forty years? No. Unless Mr. Marmaduke Cromarty had marked his hiding-place with a stone or iron plate, it would probably never be found by his heirs. Searchin the house was equally unsatisfactory. What availed it to scan a wall or a bedstead that had been scrutinised for years by eager, anxious eyes? And then Patty set her wits to work. She tried to think where an erratic old gentleman would secrete his wealth. And she was forced to admit that the most natural place was in the ground on his estate, the location to be designated by some obscure message. And surely, the message was obscure enough!
She kept her promise to help Bob in his self-appointed task of going through all the books in the library. This was no small piece of work, for it was not enough to shake each book, and let loose papers, if any, drop out. Some of the old papers had been found pinned to leaves, and so each book must be run through in such a way that every page could be glanced at.
Nor was this a particularly pleasant task. For Mrs. Hartley had made it a rule that when her own children went over the old books, they were to dust them as they went along. Thus, she said, at least some good would be accomplished, though no hidden documents might be found.
Of course, she did not request Patty to do this, but learning of the custom, Patty insisted on doing it, and many an hour she spent in theold library, clad in apron and dust-cap. Her progress was rather slow, for book-loving Patty often became absorbed in the old volumes, and dropping down on the window-seat, or the old steps to the gallery, would read away, oblivious to all else till some one came to hunt for her.
At last, one day, her patient search met a reward. In an old book she found several of what were beyond all doubt Mr. Marmaduke Comarty’s papers.
Without looking at them closely, Patty took the book straight to Mrs. Cromarty.
“Dear me!” said the old lady, putting on her glasses. “Have we really found something? I declare I’m quite nervous over it. Emmeline, you read them.”
Mrs. Hartley was a bit excited, too, and as for Patty and Mabel, they nearly went frantic at their elders’ slowness in opening the old and yellow papers.
There were several letters, a few bills, and some hastily-scribbled memoranda. The letters and bills were of no special interest, but on one of the small bits of paper was another rhymed couplet that seemed to indicate a direction.
It read:
“Where the angry griffin shows,
Ruthless, tear away the rose.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Patty, “it’s another direction how to get the fortune! Oh, Mabel, it will be all right yet! Oh, where is the angry griffin? Is it over a rosebush? You’re only to pull up the rosebush, and there you are!”
Mabel looked bewildered. So did the older ladies.
“Speak, somebody!” cried Patty, dancing about in excitement. “Isn’t there any angry griffin? There must be!”
“That’s the trouble,” said Mrs. Hartley; “there are so many of them. Why, there are angry griffins on the gates, over the lodge doors, on the marbles in the gardens, and all over the house.”
“Of course there are,” said Mabel. “You must have noticed them, Patty. There’s one now,” and she pointed to a bit of wood carving over the door frame of the room they were in.
“I don’t care! It means something, I know it does,” declared Patty. “We’ll work it out yet. I wish the boys were home.”
“They’ll soon be here,” said Mrs. Cromarty.“I can’t help thinking that it does mean something—Marmaduke was very fond of roses, and it would be just like him to plant a rosebush over his buried treasure.”
“That’s it,” cried Patty. “Now, where is there a rosebush growing, and one of the angry griffins near it?”
“There probably are some in the rose garden,” said Mrs. Cromarty. “I don’t remember any, though.”
“Come on, Mabel,” said Patty, “let’s go and look. I can’t wait another minute!”
Away flew the two girls, and for the next hour they hovered about the rosebushes with more energy than is often shown by the busiest of bees.
“I wish old Uncle Marmaduke had been less of a poet,” said Mabel, as they sat down a moment to rest, “and more of a—a——”
“More straightforward,” suggested Patty. “If he’d only written a few words of plain prose, and left it with his lawyer, all this trouble needn’t have been.”
“Well, I suppose he did intend to make it plain before he died, but he went off so suddenly. Oh, here are the boys.”
Sinclair and Bob came bounding down towardthe rose garden, followed more sedately by their mother and grandmother.
“Not a sign of a griffin a-sniffin’ of a rose,” said Patty, disconsolately.
“Oh, you haven’t looked all round yet,” said Bob. “It’s such fun to have something to look for besides fir trees and beds, I’m going to make a close search.”
“Of course,” said Sinclair, “the same rose bush wouldn’t be here now that was here thirty or forty years ago.”
“But it would have been renewed,” said Mrs. Cromarty. “We’ve always tried to keep the flowers as nearly as possible the same.”
“Then here goes to interview every griffin on the place,” declared Bob. “Jolly of old uncle to mark the spot with a rosebush and a griffin. That’s what I call decent of him. And you’re a wonder, Patty, to find the old paper.”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” said Patty. “I just followed your orders about the books. If you’d kept at it yourself, you’d have found the same book.”
“I s’pose so. But I’m glad you helped the good work along. Oh, dear! no rosebush seems to be near a griffin; and the griffins seem positively afraid of the rosebushes.”And try as they would, no angry griffin could they find, with a rosebush near it. Griffins there were in plenty; both angry and grinning. Also were there plenty of roses, but they were arranged in well-laid-out beds, and in no case were guarded or menaced by angry griffins.
“Never mind,” said Sinclair, as they returned to the house for dinner, “it’s something to work on. I shall stay at home to-morrow and try to find that particular rosebush, or the place where it used to be.”
“Maybe it’s a stone rose,” said Patty, as she touched a rose carved in stone that was part of an ornamental urn whose handles were the heads of angry griffins. Sinclair stared at her.
“You’re right,” he said, slowly, as if grasping a great thought. “It’s much more likely to be a rose of stone or marble, and when that’s ruthlessly torn away the secret will be revealed. Oh, mother, thereishope!”
Patty had never seen the placid Sinclair so excited, and they all went to their rooms to get ready for dinner, with a feeling that something was going to happen. Conversation at dinner was all on the engrossing subject.
Everybody made suggestions, and everybody recalled various partly-forgotten griffins in oddnooks and corners, each being sure that was “just the place uncle would choose!”
After dinner, the young people were anxious to go out and search more, but it had begun to rain, so they all went into the library and again scrutinised the old papers Patty had found.
They looked through more books, too, but found nothing further of interest.
At last, wearied with the hunt, Patty threw herself into a big armchair and declared she would do no more that night.
“I should say not,” said Bob. “You’ve done quite enough in giving us this new start.”
Although, as Patty had said, the looking through all the old books was Bob’s plan, he generously gave her the credit of this new find. Sinclair threw himself on a long leather couch, and began to sing softly some of their nonsense songs, as he often did when tired out. The others joined, and for a time the fortune was left to take care of itself.
Very pleasant were the four fresh young voices, and the elders listened gladly to their music.
In the middle of a song, Patty stopped, and sat bolt upright, her eyes staring at a door opposite her as if she had never seen it before.
“Gracious, goodness! Patty,” said Mabel, “what is the matter?”
“What is it, little one?” said Sinclair, still humming the refrain of the interrupted song.
Patty pointed to the door, or rather to the elaborately carved door frame, and said slowly, “I’ve been reading a lot in the old architecture books—and they often used to have secret hiding places in the walls. And look at that door frame! There’s an angry griffin on one jamb, and a smiling griffin on the other, and under each is a rose. That is it’s a five-leafed blossom, a sort of conventional flower that they always call a rose in architecture.”
“Though I suppose,” said Sinclair, “by any other name it would look as sweet. Patty, my child, you’re dreaming. That old carving is as solid as Gibraltar and that old griffin isn’t very angry anyway. He just looks rather purse proud and haughty.”
“But it’s the only griffin that’s near a rose,” persisted Patty. “And he is angry, compared to the happy-looking griffin opposite to him.”
“I believe the girl is right,” said Bob, who was already examining the carvings in question. “The rose doesn’t look movable, exactly, but itis not quite like this other rose. It’s more deeply cut.”
By this time all had clustered about the door frame, and one after another poked and pushed at the wooden rose.
“There’s something in it,” persisted Bob. “In the idea, I mean. If there’s a secret hiding-place in that upright carved beam, that rose is the key to it. See how deeply it’s cut in, compared to the other; and I can almost see a crack all round it, as if it could be removed. May I try to get it out, Grandy?”
“Certainly, my boy. We mustn’t leave a stone unturned.”
“A rose unturned, you mean. Clair, what shall we ruthlessly tear it away with? I hate to take a chisel to this beautiful old door.”
“Try a corkscrew,” said Mabel.
“You mean a gimlet,” said Bob. “That’s a good idea.”
Fetching a gimlet, he bored a hole right in the centre of the carved blossom, but though it turned and creaked a little it wouldn’t come out.
“It must come,” said Sinclair. “It turns, so that proves it’s meant to be movable. It probably has some hinge or spring that is rusted, andso it doesn’t work as it ought to. We’ll have to take hammer and chisel; shall we, Grandy?”
The boys were deferential to Mrs. Cromarty, for they well knew that she was tired of having the old house torn up to no avail. But surely this was an important development.
“Yes, indeed, boys. If your uncle’s words mean anything, they mean that it must be ruthlessly torn away, if removed at all.”
For quite ten minutes the two boys worked away with their tools, endeavouring to mar the carving as little as might be, but resolved to succeed in their undertaking. At last the wooden rose fell out in their hands, leaving a round opening.
Peering in, Sinclair saw a small iron knob, which seemed to be part of a rusty spring.
Greatly excited, he tried to push or turn it, but couldn’t move it.
“Anyway, we’re getting warm,” he cried, and his glowing face corroborated his words.
The boys took turns in working at the stubborn spring, trying with forceps and pincers to move it, until at last something seemed to give way, and the whole front of the door jamb fell out as one panel.
Behind it was a series of small pigeon holesone above the other, all filled with neatly piled papers.
Though yellow with age, the papers were carefully folded, labelled, and dated.
“Patty!” cried Mabel, as she embraced her friend, “you’ve found our fortune for us!”
“Don’t be too sure,” said Patty, laughing, and almost crying at the same time, so excited was she. “Your Uncle Marmaduke was of such uncertain ways I shouldn’t wonder if these were merely more files of his immortal verse.”
“They’re bills,” declared Sinclair, as he ran over a packet he took from a shelf.
“Let’s look them all over systematically,” said Bob. “Let’s all sit round the table, and one of us read out what the paper is about. Then if we come to anything important, we’ll all know it at once.”
This plan was adopted, and Sinclair, as the oldest, was chosen to read. He sat at the head of the long library table, and the others were at either side.
But the packets of bills, though interesting in a general way, had no bearing on the great question of the fortune. The papers were all bills.
“Not even a bit of poetry,” sighed Patty, asSinclair laid aside one after another of the receipted bills for merchandise, household goods, clothing, and labour.
“These might interest a historian,” said Sinclair, “as they throw some light on the prices of goods at that time. But we’ll keep on, we may come to something of interest yet.”
“I hope so,” said Bob. “I’m so anxious, that nothing less than a straight direction to the fortune would satisfy me.”
“Well, here’s something,” said Sinclair, “whatever it may mean.”
The paper he had just unfolded was a mason’s bill, containing only one item. The bill was made out in due form, by one Martin Campbell, and was properly receipted as paid. And its single item read:
“To constructing one secret pocket.... Three Guineas.”
“Oh!” cried Patty, breathless with excitement. “Then there is a secret pocket, or poke as your exasperating uncle calls it.”
“There must be,” said Sinclair; “and now that we know that, we’re going to find it. Of course, we assumed there was one, but we had only that foolish doggerel to prove it. Now this regular bill establishes it as a fact beyondall doubt. Do you know this Martin Campbell, Grandy?”
“I know there was a mason by that name, who worked here several times for your uncle. He came down from Leicester, but of course I know nothing more of him.”
“We’ll find him!” declared Bob. “We’ll make him give up the secret of the pocket.”
“Maybe he’s dead by this time,” said Sinclair. “Was he an old man, Grandy?”
“I don’t know, my dear. I never saw him. He worked here when I was away in London. I fear, however, he is not alive now.”
“Oh, perhaps he is. It was only about thirty-five years ago, or forty, that he built this ‘secret pocket.’ Thirty-eight, to be exact. The date on the bill proves that.”
“Well, to-morrow you must go to see him,” said Mrs. Hartley, rising. “But now, my children, you must go to bed. You can’t learn any more to-night, and to-morrow we will pick up the broken thread. Patty, my dear child, you are doing a great deal for us.”
“It isn’t anything yet,” said Patty, “but oh, if it only leads to something, I shall be so glad!”