Part 23 (1/2)

c.u.mshaw walked to the car with him. He yielded to the stronger will without any show of resistance. All his own will-power seemed to have departed, and he obeyed Bryce with a child-like faith. Once in the car he slumped into the corner and closed his eyes. Bryce seized the opportunity thus given him to steal another look at the wood he had picked up. He sc.r.a.ped away what loam he could with his finger nail, and soon was able to make out two complete words.

”This'll have to wait,” he said with a sigh, as he thrust it back into his pocket. ”This bit of wood's got your name on it, Mr. Abel c.u.mshaw, and I'll bet all I ever owned that it's the key you've been hunting for.”

He cranked up the car, and soon was speeding back to the high road. In his corner Mr. c.u.mshaw slept.

Ten minutes after they reached the main road another car swung out along the Ararat road. There were three men in it, the chauffeur and two pa.s.sengers. One of the latter held his hand to a wounded shoulder, and swore at the chauffeur every time the car jolted and sent a quiver of pain through the wound.

In course of time Bryce's car came to a little hamlet on the Geelong to Colac road--a hamlet that must be nameless in this story. There he found the Albert c.u.mshaw of this tale, delivered his father into his care and told him all that had happened, suppressing only the episode of the finding of the wood. He found Albert c.u.mshaw easier to deal with than he had expected--as a matter of fact the younger man already knew much of his father's story--and the result of the conversation was that the search was held over, pending the elder c.u.mshaw's recovery.

Bryce remained the night with the c.u.mshaws, saw that a doctor was secured who would give skilled attention to the elder man, and then early in the morning set out for home. The day was very warm, and the cool breeze that presently sprang up from the ocean moved Bryce to motor down to the coast. At the worst it was only a few miles out of his road.

At first he had no intention of making a stop at the heads, but the sea as he came within sight of it looked so cool and inviting that he was tempted to have a dip. He parked his car in the reserve, purchased a bathing suit at the local store and ambled down to the beach. It was only when he commenced to undress that he recollected that the wood was still in his pocket, so with rare caution he thrust it under the sand, quite satisfied that no one would dream of looking there. He had no idea that his pursuers were so close behind him; he was merely taking precautions against any casual tramp who might be tempted to run through his pockets.

Ten minutes later James Carstairs, explorer, gentleman and rolling stone, limped into the picture, and the story of The Lost Valley entered upon its penultimate phase.

PART III

_THE FINDING OF THE LOST VALLEY._

CHAPTER I.

THE CYPHER.

”You may smoke if you like, Mr. c.u.mshaw,” Moira said graciously to our visitor.

I said nothing; instead I silently handed the man my cigar-case. He selected a weed with a discriminating care that I felt cast an unwarranted reflection on the quality of the cigars I smoked. I watched him in silence while he cut off the end with a neat, precise stroke of his penknife, lit the cigar and blew a cloud of blue smoke out of his mouth. All the time I was staring at him I could feel Moira's eyes on me, and I knew that she was wondering what made me so boorish and morose. Or, perhaps, with a woman's keen instinct for ferreting out the things she shouldn't know anything about, she guessed just what was the matter. To tell the truth I was just beginning to feel a little jealous.

Frankly I considered that she was paying too much attention to Mr.

Albert c.u.mshaw, and I hadn't two sharp eyes without seeing that he openly admired her. Of course I had turned down her overtures of reconciliation, and I think I told her plainly enough that there was no possibility of my falling in love with her again; but, if all that were perfectly true, I shouldn't have been jealous because the two of them took to making eyes at each other. The fact remained that I was a little hurt by what I saw, and I had to recognise, even though I ran counter to the promptings of my common-sense, that I wasn't as indifferent to her as I would have myself believe.

I brought myself back with a jerk to the matter in hand.

”What do you propose doing about the matter?” I asked of c.u.mshaw.

He did not reply immediately. His right little finger flipped the ash from off the end of his cigar, and then the dark curly head lifted and the glowing eyes looked straight into mine.

”What do I propose doing!” he repeated. ”Well, if it was left to me,” he said, after a contemplative pause, ”I'd say the treasure's there, and the sooner we go after it the better. We know already that there's other people on the job--they killed Mr. Bryce and they made a mess of the Dad--and it's all right thinking, as Mr. Bryce did, that they've come to the end of their tether and are waiting for us to set the pace for them.

There's been so many miracles in this play already that it doesn't do to risk the chance of any more. We've got no absolute guarantee that they won't stumble on the key to everything while we're wasting time here.

You say you've got a cypher Mr. Bryce left you. Well, that cypher contains the position of the treasure; there's no doubt about that in my mind. Bradby carved it on the wood--neither he nor the Dad had any paper with them at the time--and from what I've heard of the man I'm confident that it's the kind of thing he would do. Then when Mr. Bryce got hold of it he burnt the wood and threw what was on it into a sort of cryptogram.

One way and another he was pretty cautious when the fit took him, though I must say that when it was a question of his own life he wasn't so particular. It boils down to this. The Dad's out of the game for good and we've got to use our own wits. Within limits we've got a fair idea of the position of the valley, and, once we've solved the cypher, we'll probably have something more definite to go on.”

”That,” I remarked, ”is supposing we do solve it. As far as I can see it's too weird for anything.”

”Uncle,” said Moira severely, ”wouldn't have written it if he didn't think you could solve it. That's why he made it easy.”

”If you think it's easy,” I retorted, ”take it yourself and see what you can make of it.”