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Meanwhile, he had separated all papers of whatever sort he found. Some parchment, some household receipts that T had brought from Denewood, thinking that they might interest Granny, a letter or two that I treasured, my little book of Maxims—in short, any scrap of writing that came under his hands, These he placed aside in a pile on the road, adding to it as he found things in the various boxes, What he could be searching for I had not the faintest idea. And so, perforce, I stood by idly while our cheerful highway-man emptied my boxes, Clarinda helping him.

At last it was finished, and, taking the writings, he went with them to the silent figure on horseback, who, giving up his pistols for the moment, examined them intently. The book of Maxims he searched through page by page, and so, too, with the receipts and. leaves of writing-paper, but he evidently: found not what he sought.

He shook his head, and whispered to his companion with much earnestness, though I could hear no sound of what he said.

“Nay, captain, there is naught else there,” answered the voluble one positively, and after some further parley between them, he came back with all the things he had gathered, and put them into the chaise. Then, seeing that Clarinda had already closed the last boxes, he called the driver and together they strapped them in place.

“May I escort you to your chariot?” he queried, addressing me with another wave of his hat and a most elaborate bow. “I offer ten thousand pardons for the delay; further I cannot go, seeing that we have taken naught; but the road is clear, and I may not, in conscience, keep you longer.”

I crossed to the chaise, called Clarinda, and, a moment later, he closed the door for us. A crack of the whip, a rumbling, slow turning of the wheels, and we were off again,

As we moved forward, our gay-minded high-wayman took off his hat, debonair and courteous to the last, and I heard a farewell catch sung in his sweet, high-pitched voice, but remember not the words, for, as I leaned forward and looked out of the window a moment at the more menacing figure on the horse, a sudden gust of wind tore down the road and lifted his mask, showing, for a brief instant, the face of Blundell.

With a cry, I sank back into my seat, at first too numbed by this discovery to even think; then slowly my wits came back to me, and I started to puzzle out the mystery, What could the man have wanted? Little by little I pieced it out.

I had heard him vow he knew where information of a great treasure lay, and that he meant to find it. I also remembered that he had had some dealings with old Schmuck, the Magus.

I reached across the carriage and took up my little book of Maxims. Carefully I pressed the silken cover, and under it I could just feel the faint outline of the two pieces of silvered paper, hidden there so long ago.

“He did n’t find it,” I said to myself, with a nod of triumph. “And he shall never have it!” I added, little knowing that the day would come when I should be only too glad to hand it to him.