"There are the old people, and there are us. But the connecting link has gone—you and yours."
"The lost generation," he repeated slowly. "A nice idea—that."
"And that's why I asked you what you thought of us," she said. "You are one of the few who are qualified to judge."
He lit another cigarette before replying.
"Am I? I wonder. One can see changes—naturally, but who am I to say whether they are for the better or for the worse. This show, for instance. Frankly, I can't quite see this happening twenty years ago. Nor did everyone call everyone else 'darling' on sight."
"Trifles," she said impatiently. "Just trifles. What about the big things?"
"I should say," he answered without hesitation, "no change. Different methods, perhaps: different ways of doing them—but, in the end, the same."
"You don't think we're softer than you were?"
"I think this age is more comfort loving, undoubtedly, if that's what you mean. But that, I suppose, is only natural in view of the advance of science. Then one hacked to a meet—now one goes in a car."
"But are we as keen on adventure?"
Jim laughed.
"Adventure! Where is adventure to be found these days?"
"You ought to know," she said, "if half the stories I've heard about you are true."
"I'm afraid I'm a hard-bitten case," he answered. "But I can assure you that even I have noticed the difference in the last few years. Everything is getting far too quiet."
"Even in South America?" she asked.
South America! Percy's remark came back to him, and he wondered what was coming next. This, apparently, was what she had been leading up to.
"You can get a bit of fun out there at times," he said lightly. "But then if one looked for it I dare say one could get it in London."
"What sort of people are they?"
He laughed again.
"My dear Miss Draycott," he said, "they vary as much as the inhabitants of Europe. But by your question I assume you mean the brand that we generally lump together as dagos. Well—just like every other breed, you will find all sorts and conditions. I have excellent—very excellent friends amongst them. But they are people who require careful handling. For instance, there is one thing you must never do to a dago, unless you know him extremely well. Never pull his leg. He doesn't understand it: he takes it as an insult. There's another thing too. You stick a knife into one—or shoot him up—and he'll understand it. You hit him with your fist on the jaw and he'll never forgive you."
"Are they very quick with a knife?" she asked.
"Very—and with a gun. Moreover, they will shoot on the smallest provocation. You'll understand, of course, that I'm not talking about the vast majority of them, who are perfectly harmless people. But to show you what I mean about the minority I'll tell you a thing I saw with my own eyes. It was in Buenos Aires about seven years ago, and a festa was in progress. Streets crammed with people and cars: the whole place en fête. I was on the side walk, and a motor-car alongside me was being held up by a man who was standing just in front of the mudguard. So the driver sang out to him to move. He didn't, and after a while the driver very slowly drove forward, and hit the man a glancing blow on the leg. Now it was a blow that wouldn't have hurt a fly: it didn't even make the man stumble. But what happened next? As the driver came abreast of the man, he calmly stepped on to the running-board, drew his gun and blew out the driver's brains. And this, mark you, with the wife in the back of the car."
"But didn't they arrest the murderer?" cried the girl.
"Not a hope," said Jim. "He just vanished into the crowd. No—they want watching, especially if they've got a drop too much liquor on board."
He pressed out his cigarette.
"Is it permitted to ask why you are so interested in South America?"
For a moment or two she hesitated, staring in front of her. Then she turned to him.
"I am almost tempted to use that stereotyped beginning, Mr. Maitland, and ask you not to laugh at me."
"Then I'll make the stereotyped reply and assure you that I shan't," he said quietly.
"I've got a brother," she went on, "a twin brother. Arthur is his name. And for the past two years he's been knocking about in South America. Brazil, Uruguay, and the Argentine. Now I know that must seem very small beer to you—I mean I don't think he's been much off the beaten track. But at any rate he's been out there, cutting away from this."
"Has he been on a job?" asked Jim.
"He went out there to start with for a big oil firm. Quite a good salary. And of course Daddy allows him something. But after two or three months he found he couldn't stick it—his manager was a swine—so he chucked it. Since then he's been drifting about."
"I see," said Jim quietly. Only too many youngsters had he met drifting about on something allowed by Daddy, and the brand did not inspire him with confidence. Then feeling that his remark had been a little too curt, he added—"It's difficult to get jobs out there—jobs that are any good, that is—unless a man is an expert. And it's a devilish expensive place to drift in."
"I know it is," she answered. "Arthur often wrote me to say how fearfully difficult he found it. At any rate he managed to carry on, until he had the most amazing piece of luck about six months ago. And now I'm coming to where I'm afraid you may laugh."
"Risk it," said Jim with a smile.
"If I'd known you were coming this evening I'd have brought his letter, but I think I can remember all that matters. It seems that he did some kindness to a broken-down sailor in Monte Video—an Englishman. And this sailor on his deathbed told him some wonderful story of buried treasure."
Jim's face remained expressionless, though this was worse than he had expected.
"I hope he didn't part with any money for it," he said quietly.
"I thought you'd take it that way," she cried. "I did myself when I first read it. But he didn't pay anything: the sailor gave him the whole secret. And, anyway, he'd only got his allowance: he had no capital to give away."
"What is the secret?" he enquired.
"That I don't know," she said. "He wrote something about a map, and fitting out an expedition, and from that moment I never heard another word till three weeks ago when I got a letter saying he was coming home by the next boat. He also said that if anything should happen to him I should find a letter addressed to me at my bank."
"If anything happened to him," repeated Jim thoughtfully. "Have you been to the bank to enquire?"
"Yes. I was actually in there this morning, and there was nothing."
"Then everything seems plain sailing, Miss Draycott. Presumably nothing has happened to him, and if you got his letter three weeks ago he ought to be in England by now. And as soon as you see him you'll be able to get the whole story."
"I know. But it is there that I wondered if you could help."
She looked at him appealingly.
"Me! I shall be delighted. But how?"
"By going into the whole thing with him, and telling him what you think. You know so much more than he does, Mr. Maitland, and if there's anything in it, it would be wonderful if we could have your advice."
For a while he hesitated: then he looked her straight in the face.
"I'm going to be perfectly frank, Miss Draycott," he said. "The story, as you've told it to me, is, not to mince words, as old as the hills. From time immemorial drunken seamen have babbled in their cups of treasure trove—gold ingots, diamonds, and all the rest of the paraphernalia. Generally, too, they have a roughly-scrawled map, with, as often as not, a skull