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’s through 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 that shan’t happen!”
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 would leave 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 mean when, you find the 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 XVII.
The 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. Search in 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 the old 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