corner to make it more realistic. In fact the one point in which this story differs from the others is that he did not apparently touch your brother for money. Had he done that I should have advised you to dismiss the whole thing from your mind at once."
"You don't think there is anything in it, then," she said despondently.
"I don't want to be brutal," he answered with a smile, "but I fear that is my opinion. I'm not going to deny that there must be treasure—probably priceless treasure—hidden away in odd parts of the globe: relics of the old pirate days. I'm not going to deny that the Spanish Main, and the coast of South America are very likely localities for the hiding-places. But what I do feel doubtful about is the likelihood of a down-and-out seaman in Monte Video knowing anything about it, or getting the clue to its whereabouts."
"But as you said yourself he took no money," she persisted.
"I know that," he agreed. "And I think it is quite possible that the sailor genuinely believed what he was saying—they're the most gullible brand of men on earth. I think it is more than likely that when your brother befriended him he really intended to do him a good turn. What I'm doubtful of is the value of the information. Certainly I would say one thing. Unless your brother, when you see him, has something very much more definite to go on than the ramblings of a seaman on his last legs, and this map he was given it would be nothing short of madness to sink any money in an attempt to discover it."
"I quite see your point," she said. "But would it be too much to ask you to hear what he's got to say? And then give us your advice."
"Of course not," cried Jim. "I shall be only too delighted. The Dorchester Club always finds me when I'm in London, and I shall be very interested to hear what he has to tell us. I know that country better than most men, and if I can be of any assistance—count me in. But for Heaven's sake—don't build any false hopes on it."
A sudden surge of Bright Young Things bearing kippers and beer descended on them, and carried her away, leaving Jim with an intense female who shook him to the marrow on sight. He suffered her for five minutes, at the end of which period, to his inexpressible relief, Percy bore down on him.
"I never thought I should be glad to see you, Percy," he said, as the female drifted away, "but that woman is a menace to society."
"She is pretty grim," agreed his cousin. "What price the other girl? I saw you with your noses touching for about half an hour!"
"A nice little soul," said Jim. "Do you know anything about her?"
"Just been asking Pamela. Her father is a retired General: got a house down in Sussex."
"Has he got any money?"
"Hullo! Hullo! Hullo!" Percy dug him in the ribs. "So that's how the land lies, does it?"
"Don't be such a damned fool," said Jim curtly. "To say nothing of being infernally offensive."
"Sorry, old man. I but spoke in jest. As a matter of fact, I think not. In fact Pamela said he was darned hard up. There's a pretty useless waster of a son, I gather. Out in South America somewhere."
Jim glanced at his watch: the time was two o'clock.
"Not going yet, old lad, are you?" cried Percy. "We're only just beginning."
"You needn't come," said Jim. "I shall walk. This terrific excitement is too much for me. Do I have to whisper some mystic countersign to get out of the place?"
"No, just open the front door and beetle away. Sure you don't want me to take you in the bus?"
"Quite," said Jim, and beetled.
Thus did we find him, top-hat tilted, pondering on things in general with the lights of London in front of him. He strolled slowly along drawing in great lungsful of fresh air. Lord! what an atmosphere there had been in that cellar. And what a damned-fool performance. Yet, in a way he was glad he had gone: the girl in grey was rather a dear. Stupid of him not to have asked her address: probably get it when this young brother of hers rolled up.
He grinned to himself: the hidden treasure yarn had whiskers on it even when compared to the old Spanish prisoner chestnut. No less than four times had it been put up to him—vouched for chapter and verse. Still he was sorry for the girl, especially as there was not much money. Probably been building on it a bit: only natural that she should. But the brother must be a fool as well as a waster to be taken in by it.
A belated taxi homeward bound hailed him, but he shook his head. He was not in the least sleepy, and the combined reek of smoke and kipper still clung to him. Young asses! He tried to picture what any of them would do in a really tight corner. That fellow who had been thumping the piano for instance, and thumping it damned well, to do him justice. But imagine him in a bar in Valparaiso, for instance, when a rough house started.
He threw away his cigarette: was he being quite fair? After all, none of them had had any experience of such a show. And maybe if they did do the wrong thing it would be from lack of knowledge, not from lack of guts. It wasn't given to many to have the opportunities he had had, even if the desire to have them was there.
Men had often told him that he looked for trouble, but that was not quite the case. There was no need for him to look: it came of its own accord. True, he never went out of his way to avoid it: he would even admit that he welcomed it with both hands. Something out of the ordinary, off the beaten track: something with a spice of danger in it—that was all he asked of life. And up-to-date life had given him full measure, pressed down and running over.
He glanced up at the houses he was passing: solid lumps of respectability, symbolic of everything that he was not. In them reposed lawyers, stock-brokers, city magnates—men who formed the backbone of the Medes and Persians. Not there was adventure in London to be found: the mere thought of it was an outrage. In Dockland, perhaps, but that was cheap: the glamour of Limehouse exists only in the imagination of the novelist. No—though he had told the girl that it could be found he was wrong: it could not be found anywhere these days....
And at that moment, clear and distinct in the still, night air, there rang out the sharp crack of a revolver shot.
CHAPTER II
JIM MAITLAND stopped dead in his tracks, and then with the instinct bred of many years he sought the cover of a neighbouring tree. In the country he had just come from he would not have given the matter a second thought—gun work was part of the ordinary day's round. But in London, especially in this part of London, it was a very different affair. The sound had come from the house in front of him—a house very similar to the one he had just left, save that it was not for sale. It was in darkness, but some kind of subconscious instinct told him that there had been a light in one of the upper windows a few seconds previously.
He glanced up and down the road: not a soul was in sight. He looked at the two neighbouring houses: there was no sign of movement. And then, as was his way, he summed up the situation. He was unarmed: whoever had fired the shot obviously was not. Short of breaking in there was no way in which he could get into the house. And finally it was no earthly business of his. Wherefore, by three very good reasons to nil he should have continued his leisurely walk towards home. Which was quite sufficient to decide him to do nothing of the sort. He would give it a few minutes at any rate to see if anything further happened.
He turned the collar of his evening overcoat up so as to cover the white patch of dress shirt. Then motionless as a statue he seemed to merge himself into the trees in front of him. For a while nothing happened: then from one of the windows there came a gleam of light. It was extinguished almost at once, only to appear in the one just below it and then go out again. Someone was coming down the stairs. It shone for a second over the front door, and then the door itself opened, and two men came out.
Jim realised they would have to pass within a few feet of him, and pressed himself still closer against the trees. He could hear their voices—one furiously angry, the other seemingly