“The expected has happened, I see,” said Macloud, laying aside the paper he had been reading, and raising his hand for a servant. “I thought it was the unexpected that happens,” Hungerford drawled, languidly. “What do you mean?” “Royster & Axtell have been thrown into bankruptcy. Liabilities of twenty million, assets problematical.” “You don’t say!” ejaculated Hungerford, sitting up sharply. “Have they caught any of our friends?” “All who dealt with them, I reckon.” “Too bad! Too bad!—We

The Cavendishes were of those who (to quote Macloud’s words) “did belong and, thank God, showed it.” Henry Cavendish had married Josephine Marquand in the days before there were any idle-rich in Northumberland, and when the only leisure class were in jail. Now, when the idea, that it was respectable not to work, was in the ascendency, he still went to his office with unfailing regularity—and the fact that the Tuscarora Trust Company paid sixty per cent. on its capital stock, and sold in the mark

Croyden left Northumberland in the morning—and his economy began with the ride East: he went on Day Express instead of on the Limited, thereby saving the extra fare. At Philadelphia he sent his baggage to the Bellevue-Stratford; later in the evening, he had it returned to the station, and checked it, himself, to Hampton—to avoid the possibility of being followed by means of his luggage. He did not imagine that any one would go to the trouble to trace him, but he was not taking any chances. He wa

Croyden, with Dick as guide and old Mose as forerunner and shutter-opener, went through the house, even unto the garret. As in the downstairs, he found it immaculate. Josephine had kept everything as though the Colonel himself were in presence. The bed linen, the coverlids, the quilts, the blankets were packed in trunks, the table-linen and china in drawers and closets. None of them was new—practically the entire furnishing antedated 1830, and much of them 1800—except that, here and there, a few

Croyden was sitting before the house, later in the afternoon, when an elderly gentleman, returning leisurely from town, turned in at the Clarendon gates. “My first caller,” thought Croyden, and immediately he arose and went forward to meet him. “Permit me to present myself, sir,” said the newcomer. “I am Charles Carrington.” “I am very glad to meet you, Captain Carrington,” said Croyden, taking the proffered hand. “This is your first visit to Hampton, I believe, sir,” the Captain remarked, when

The next month, to Croyden, went pleasantly enough. He was occupied with getting the household machinery to run according to his ideas—and still retain Moses and Josephine, who, he early discovered, were invaluable to him; in meeting the people worth knowing in the town and vicinity, and in being entertained, and entertaining—all very quietly and without ostentation. He had dined, or supped, or played Bridge at all the houses, had given a few small things himself, and ended by paying off all sco

There was no trouble with Casey—he had been mighty glad to take them. And, at about noon of the following day, they drew in to the ancient capital, having made a quick and easy run from Hampton. It was clear, bright October weather, when late summer seems to linger for very joy of staying, and all nature is in accord. The State House, where Washington resigned his commission—with its chaste lines and dignified white dome, when viewed from the Bay (where the monstrosity of recent years that has b

“This is, truly, a surprise!” Miss Cavendish exclaimed. “Who would ever have thought of meeting you two in this out-of-the-way place.” “Here, too!” replied Macloud. “When did you return, Geoffrey?” she inquired. “From abroad?—I haven’t gone,” said Croyden. “The business still holds me.” She looked at him steadily a moment—Macloud was talking to Miss Brundage. “How much longer will it hold you?” she asked. He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know—it’s difficult of adjustment.—What brings you here

“I’ve been thinking,” said Croyden, as they footed it across the Severn bridge, “that, if we knew the year in which the light-house was erected, we could get the average encroachment of the sea every year, and, by a little figuring, arrive at where the point was in 1720. It would be approximate, of course, but it would give us a start—something more definite than we have now. For all we know Parmenter’s treasure may be a hundred yards out in the Bay.” Macloud nodded. “And if we don’t find the da

That evening, in the seclusion of their apartment at Carvel Hall, they took Axtell into their confidence—to a certain extent (though, again, he protested his willingness simply to obey orders). They told him, in a general way, of Parmenter’s bequest, and how Croyden came to be the legatee—saying nothing of its great value, however—its location, the loss of the letter the previous evening, the episode of the thieves on the Point, that morning, and their evident intention to return to the quest. “

“May we have seen the last of you!” said Macloud, as the buggy disappeared among the trees; “and may the police provide for you in future.” “And while you’re about it,” said Croyden, “you might pray that we find the treasure—it would be quite as effective.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s four o’clock. Now, to resume where those rogues interrupted us. We had the jewels located, somewhere, within a radius of fifty feet. They must be, according to our theory, either on the bank or in the Bay. We ca

It was evening, when Croyden returned to Hampton—an evening which contained no suggestion of the Autumn he had left behind him on the Eastern Shore. It was raw, and damp, and chill, with the presage of winter in its cold; the leaves were almost gone from the trees, the blackening hand of frost was on flower and shrubbery. As he passed up the dreary, deserted street, the wind was whistling through the branches over head, and moaning around the houses like spirits of the damned. He turned in at Cl

When Croyden had got Parmenter’s letter from the secret drawer in the escritoire, he rang the old-fashioned pull-bell for Moses. It was only a little after nine, and, though he did not require the negro to remain in attendance until he retired, he fancied the kitchen fire still held him. And he was not mistaken. In a moment Moses appeared—his eyes heavy with the sleep from which he had been aroused. “Survent, marster!” he said, bowing from the doorway. “Moses, did you ever shoot a pistol?” Croyd

Macloud arrived the next day, bringing for his host a great batch of mail, which had accumulated at the Club. “I thought of it at the last moment—when I was starting for the station, in fact,” he remarked. “The clerk said he had no instructions for forwarding, so I just poked it in my bag and brought it along. Stupid of me not to think of it sooner. Why didn’t you mention it? I can understand why you didn’t leave an address, but not why I shouldn’t forward it.” “I didn’t care, when I left—and I

Macloud found Miss Carrington plucking a few belated roses, which, somehow, had escaped the frost. She looked up at his approach, and smiled—the bewilderingly bewitching smile which lighted her whole countenance and seemed to say so much. “Back again! to Clarendon and its master?” was her greeting. “And, if I may, to you,” he replied. “Very good! After them, you belong to me ,” she laughed. “Why after?” he inquired. “I don’t know—it was the order of speech, and the order of acquaintance,” with a

The next two weeks passed uneventfully. The thieves did not manifest themselves, and the Government authorities did nothing to suggest that they had been informed of the Parmenter treasure. Macloud had developed an increasing fondness for Miss Carrington’s society, which she, on her part, seemed to accept with placid equanimity. They rode, they drove, they walked, they sailed when the weather warranted—and the weather had recovered from its fit of the blues, and was lazy and warm and languid. In

Miss Cavendish was standing behind the curtains in the window of her room, when Croyden and Macloud came up the walk, at four o’clock. She was waiting!—not another touch to be given to her attire. Her gown, of shimmering blue silk, clung to her figure with every movement, and fell to the floor in suggestively revealing folds. Her dark hair was arranged in simple fashion—the simplicity of exquisite taste—making the fair face below it, seem fairer even than it was. She was going to win this man. S

When Croyden and Macloud left the Carrington residence that evening, after their call and tea, Elaine and Davila remained for a little while in the drawing-room rehearsing the events of the day, as women will. Presently, Davila went over to draw the shades. “What do you say to a walk before we dress for dinner?” she inquired. “I should like it, immensely,” Elaine answered. They went upstairs, changed quickly to street attire, and set out. “We will go down to the centre of the town and back,” sai

In half-an-hour from the time Captain Carrington strode to the telephone to arouse his friends, all Hampton had the startling news: Davila Carrington and her guest, Miss Cavendish, had disappeared. How, when, and where, it could not learn, so it supplied the deficiency as best pleased the individual—by morning, the wildest tales were rehearsed and credited. The truth was bad enough, however. Miss Carrington and Miss Cavendish were not in the town, nor anywhere within a circuit of five miles. Cro

On the second morning after their abduction, when Elaine and Davila arose, the sky was obscured by fog, the trees exuded moisture, and only a small portion of the Bay was faintly visible through the mist. “This looks natural!” said Elaine. “We must have moved out to Northumberland, in the night.” Davila smiled, a feeble sort of smile. It was not a morning to promote light-heartedness, and particularly under such circumstances. “Is this anything like Northumberland?” she asked. “Yes!—Only Northum

Macloud went to New York on the evening train. He carried Croyden’s power of attorney with stock sufficient, when sold, to make up his share of the cash. He had provided for his own share by a wire to his brokers and his bank in Northumberland. A draft would be awaiting him. He would reduce both amounts to one thousand dollar bills and hurry back to Annapolis to meet Croyden. But they counted not on the railroads,—or rather they did count on them, and they were disappointed. A freight was derail