"Don't you believe her," says I. "She's the one that planned most of this."

"But what is it?" demands Cousin Myra. "What do you call it?"

"Why," says I, grinnin' more or less foolish, "we're just givin' a Myra day, that's all."

"Splendid!" says she. "And the fact that I don't in the least deserve it makes it seem all the nicer. I suppose your being here, Lester, is part of the plot, too?"

"I hope so," says the Professor.

"Do you know," says Myra, liftin' her gla.s.s and glancin' kittenish over the brim at him, "I mean to try to live up to this day. I don't mind saying, though, that for a while it's going to be an awful strain."

"Anyway," says I to Vee, after it's all over and the Professor has finally said good night, "she's got a good start."

"Yes," says Vee, "and perhaps Lester will help some. I didn't quite look for that. It's been fun, though, hasn't it?"

"For an indoor sport," says I, "givin' a Myra day is a lot merrier than it sounds. It beats bein' good to yourself nine up and six to go."

CHAPTER IX

REPORTING BLANK ON RUPERT

And yet, I've had people ask me if this private sec. job didn't get sort of monotonous! Does it? Say, listen a while!

I was breezin' through the arcade here the other noon, about twenty minutes behind my lunch schedule, when someone backs away from the marble wall tablets the agents have erected in honor of them firms that keep their rent paid. Some perfect stranger it is, who does the reverse goose step so unexpected that there's no duckin' a collision.

Quite a substantial party he is, too, and where my nose connects with his shoulder he's built about as solid as a concrete pillar.

"Say," I remarks, when the aurora borealis has faded out and I can see straight again, "if you're goin' to carom around that way in public, you ought to wear pads."

"Oh, I'm sorry," says he. "I didn't mean to be so awkward. Hope you're not hurt, sir."

Then I did do some gawpin'. For who'd ever expect a big, rough-finished husk like that, would have such a soft, ladylike voice concealed about him? And the "sir" was real soothin'.

"It's all right," says I. "Guess I ain't disabled for life. Next time, though, I'll be particular to walk around."

"But really," he goes on, "I--I'm not here regularly. I was just trying to find a name--a Mr. Robert Ellins."

"Eh?" says I. "Lookin' for Mr. Robert, are you?"

"Then you know him?" he asks eager.

"Ought to," says I. "He's my boss. Corrugated Trust is what you should have looked under."

"Ah, yes; I remember now," says he. "Corrugated Trust--that's the part I'd forgotten. Then perhaps you can tell me just where--"

"I could," says I, "but it wouldn't do you a bit of good. He's got appointments up to 1:15. After that he'll be taking two hours off for luncheon--if he comes back at all. Better make a date for to-morrow or next day."

The solid gent looks disappointed.

"I had hoped I might find him to-day," says he. "It--it's rather important."

At which I sizes him up a little closer. Sort of a carrot blond, this gent is, with close-cropped pale red hair, about the ruddiest neck you ever saw off a turkey gobbler, and a face that's so freckled it looks crowded. The double-breasted blue serge coat and the blue flannel shirt with the black sailor tie gives me a hunch, though. Maybe he's one of Mr. Robert's yacht captains.

"What name?" says I.

"Killam," says he. "Rupert Killam."

"Sounds bloodthirsty," says I. "Cap'n, eh?"

"Why--er--yes," says he. "That is what I am usually called."

"I see," says I. "Used to sail his 60-footer, did you?"

No, that wasn't quite the idea, either. That's somewhere near his line, though, and he wants to see Mr. Robert very particular.

"I think I may a.s.sure you," the Captain goes on, "that it will be to his advantage."

"In that case," says I, "you'd better tell it to me; private sec., you know. And if you make a date that's what you'll have to do, anyway.

Suppose you come along and feed with me. Then you can shoot the details durin' lunch and we'll save time. Oh, I'll charge it up to the firm, never fear."

The Cap. don't seem anxious to have his information strained through a third party that way, but I finally convinces him it's the regular course for gettin' a hearing so he trails along to the chophouse. And, in spite of his flannel shirt, Rupert seems well table broken. He don't do the bib act with his napkin, or try any sword-swallowin' stunt.

"Now, what's it all about?" says I, as we gets to the pastry and demita.s.se.

"Well," says Killam, after glancin' around sleuthy and seein' n.o.body more suspicious than a yawnin' 'bus boy, "I have found the lost treasure of Jose Caspar."

"Have you?" says I, through a mouthful of strawb'ry shortcake. "When did he lose it?"

"Haven't you ever read," says he, "of Gasparilla?"

"Is it a new drink, or what?" says I.

"No, no," says he. "Gasparilla, the great pirate, once the terror of the Spanish Main. Surely you must have read about him."

"Nope," says I. "That Nick Carter junk never got to me very strong."

The Cap. stares at me sort of surprised and pained.

"But this isn't a dime-novel story I am telling," he protests. "Jose Caspar was a real person--just as real as George Washington or John Paul Jones. He was a genuine pirate, too, and the fact that he had his headquarters on the west coast of Florida is well established. It's history. And it is also true that he buried much of his stolen treasure--gold and jewelry and precious stones--on some one of those thousands of sandy keys which line the Gulf coast from Anclote Light to White Water Bay. For nearly two hundred years men have hunted for that treasure. Why even the United States Government once sent out an expedition to find it. But I, Rupert Killam, have at last discovered the true hiding place of that secret h.o.a.rd."

Can you beat that for a batty conversation to be handed across the table, right on Broadway at high noon? But say, take it from me, this Rupert party is some convincin' spieler. With that low, smooth voice of his, and them b.u.t.termilk blue eyes fixed steady and earnest on mine, I was all but under the spell for a minute or so there. Then I shakes myself and gets back to normal.

"Say," says I, "you ain't lookin' to put any such fancy tale as that over on Mr. Robert, are you?"

"I hope I can interest him in the enterprise," says Killam.

"Well, take my advice and don't waste your time," says I. "He's a good deal of a sport and all that, but I don't think he'd fall for anything so musty as this old doubloon and pieces-of-eight dope."