Joan's Enemies/Chapter 13

HE inspection of the laboratory proved to be a simple and placid business with no particularly illuminating results. As recollected by Grant, the floor was of cement, an unbroken expanse—not the faintest hint anywhere of a flagstone lurking underneath. The laboratory itself was a spacious high-roofed building with numerous tall, narrow windows of dullish but not altogether opaque glass, barred on the outside; it formed an offshoot from the back of the house and had been built to balance a much older extension containing the servants' quarters. A small courtyard lay between the two.

“If there is anything of value under this,” said Grant, tapping the cement with his heel, “it is as safe as in a safe-deposit vault. This is no job for a silence-loving burglar. I'm afraid we have been misled by the unsatisfactory document we have studied so hard, Miss Gosling.”

“It is too soon to say that, Mr. Grant,” she solemnly replied. “There may be—in fact, there are, till we have proved it otherwise—flagstones under this stuff. If I had a proper tool, I'd begin at once.”

“But the cement has been there so long. If my uncle had had it laid recently, I would say no more, but join you in excavating.”

“All the same,” Joan put in, “it isn't three years since I handled heaps of platinum for Mr. Cran. Of course, it may not have been the platinum referred to in the writing; only I have often thought of it without once remembering that he ever took away anything heavy to the city, and I usually saw him off.”

“At all events, Joan,” said Grant, teasingly, “you must admit that he did not hide it under this cement.”

“Looks as if I should have to do all the thinking,” the spinster observed with something of her old asperity. “Suppose Mr. Cran had another entrance to his treasure-chamber; suppose he got at it from somewhere down below, and—and destroyed this entrance and all traces of it after he was done with it, leaving us—I mean you, Mr. Grant—to find and use the entrance mentioned on the paper. How's that?”

“Brilliant, Aunt Griselda!” cried Joan. “I should say he made a burrow from the garden every night and filled it up just before morning!”

Miss Gosling ignored the pleasantry. “What besides the treasure-chamber, which I imagine to be small, lies beneath us?”

“Ground,” said Joan, so stolidly that Grant laughed.

With a fine dignity Miss Gosling turned and marched to the door, opened it and passed through. Then she wheeled and faced them. “What,” she demanded, “lies beneath me now?”

“One of the old cellars, probably.”

“Good! Let us go to it at once!”

At this Joan demurred. “I do think,” she said, “we ought to avoid rousing not only the servants but their curiosity. You see, I might have to ask for keys and so on. In the morning I can easily make an excuse for an underground excursion. And I shall arrange that we have proper lights.”

So it was finally agreed that further search be deferred till next day. Then Grant spoke: “I must go, Joan. What hour will suit you to-morrow, and may I bring my friend Fairthorn?”

Once more Miss Gosling put in her word. “Please make it after lunch. I've just remembered I must be out in the morning. Of course, if you'd rather go ahead without me—”

“Don't be silly,” said her niece with weary good-humor. “Yes, Mr. Grant, we shall be pleased to see you to lunch at half-past one, and Mr. Fairthorn also.”

“And a mariner's compass,” added the irrepressible spinster, “in case we lose our way down below.”

“I wish he weren't quite so secretive,” Miss Gosling began when Joan returned from the hallway.

“I'm going to bed,” Joan interrupted. “I'm dead tired.” From the table she took the strip of paper and its envelope.

“Are you going to put it in the safe, Joan?”

“No,” was the brief, decided answer. Joan had determined that the paper should never leave her person until the treasure was either in Douglas Grant's possession or proved to be a myth. Not again would she risk failing in her trust.

N early train next day carried Lottie back to Atlantic City—richer by one hundred dollars, a little wiser in the ways of men, but certainly no happier, for her adventure. And she had allowed herself to be put off with a hundred dollars! It was disgusting! Accordingly it was scarcely as a bringer of cheer that she reached the rooms wherein her mother had spent a lonely, anxious night and morning. Mrs. Lismore had been told only of the financial reason for her daughter's journey to New York; she had done her best to dissuade the girl from an errand which, she foresaw, would have distressing results.

Lottie now kissed the fragile creature tenderly enough.

“Dear, tell me—” began Mrs. Lismore.

“He let me have a hundred.”

“Oh, but that is very good news, Lottie! It was kind of him, for he is sorely pressed just now, poor man. The expense of this holiday lies heavy on my conscience.”

To Lottie's credit let it be recorded that she suppressed a bitter rejoinder. She moved over to the window. A moment later her face cleared. A young man of pleasing appearance and, as she was aware, fair means, was passing. Catching sight of her, he bowed, smiling gladly. They had had something like a flirtation, three evenings ago. Perhaps they might meet again shortly. Her troubles slipped from her like a loosened ugly cloak. She returned the salutation graciously.

“Any news, dear?” Mrs. Lismore was inquiring.

Over her shoulder the girl said casually: “Douglas Grant is home.”

After a little while, the young man having passed from sight, she wondered why her mother, who had been very fond of Douglas, offered no comment. She turned round—and screamed.

Mrs. Lismore, for the first time in her daughter's experience, had fainted.