Part 19 (2/2)

As will be readily understood, when I woke up the next morning I was sensible at once of a great relief. My anxieties and misadventures of last night were well paid for after all. I could look at my swollen wrists and say that without any hesitation, the watchers had departed from their watching, and what if they had carried away the King of Portugal's great jewelled cross? Helen Mayle had no need of it, indeed, her great regret now was that she could not get rid of what she had; and as for Cullen, to tell the truth, I did not care a snap of the fingers whether he found a fortune or must set to work to make one. Other men had been compelled to do it--better men too, deuce take him! We were well quit of George Glen and his gang, though the price of the quittance was heavy. I would get up at once, run across to Merchant's Point, and tell Helen Mayle---- My plans came to a sudden stop. Tell Helen Mayle precisely what? That Adam Mayle's grave had been rifled?

I lay staring up at the ceiling as I debated that question, and suddenly it slipped from my mind. That grave had been rifled before, and quite recently. I was as certain of that in the sober light of the morning as I had been during the excitement of last night. Why? It was not for the chart of the treasure, since the chart had been left. And by whom? So after all, here was I, who had waked up in the best of spirits too, with the world grown comfortable, confronted with questions as perplexing as a man could wish for. It was, as Cullen Mayle had said, at the inn near Axminster, most discouraging. And I turned over in bed and tried to go to sleep, that I might drive them from my mind. I should have succeeded too, but just as I was in a doze there came a loud rapping at the door, and d.i.c.k Parmiter danced into the room.

”They are gone, Mr. Berkeley,” he cried.

”I know,” I grumbled; ”I saw them go,” and stretched out my arms and yawned.

”Why, you have hurt your wrist,” d.i.c.k exclaimed.

”No,” said I, ”it was George Glen's shake of the hand.”

”They are gone,” repeated d.i.c.k, gleefully, ”all of them except Peter Tortue.”

”What's that?” I cried, sitting up in the bed.

”All of them except Peter Tortue.”

”To be sure,” said I, scratching my head.

Now what in the world had Peter Tortue remained behind for? For no harm, that was evident, since I owed my life to his good offices last night. I was to remember that it was he who saved me. I was, then, to make some return. But what return?

I threw my pillow at Parmiter's head.

”Deuce take you, d.i.c.ky! My bed was not such a plaguey restful place before that it needed you to rumple it further. Well, since I mayn't sleep late i' the morning like a gentleman, I'll get up.”

I tried to put together some sort of plausible explanation which would serve for Helen Mayle while I was dressing. But I could not hit upon one, and besides Parmiter made such a to-do over brus.h.i.+ng my clothes this morning that that alone was enough to drive all reasoning out of one's head.

”d.i.c.k,” said I as he handed me my coat, ”you have had, if my memory serves me, some experience of womenfolk.”

d.i.c.k nodded his head in a mournful fas.h.i.+on.

”Mother!” said he.

”Precisely,” said I. ”Now, here's a delicate question. Do you always tell womenfolk the truth?”

”No,” said he, stoutly.

”Do you tell them--shall we say quibbles,--then?”

”Quibbles?” said d.i.c.k, opening his mouth.

”It is not a fruit, d.i.c.ky,” said I, ”so you need not keep it open. By quibbles I mean lies. Do you tell your womenfolk lies, when the truth is not good for them to know?”

”No,” said d.i.c.k, as steadily as before, ”for they finds you out.”

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