SAXE TEMPLE regarded with pardonable pride the supper-table laid for four in the parlor of his bachelor apartment. Then, as a knock made known the first arrival, he went to the door, and opened it eagerly. At sight of the tall, soldier-like figure standing on the threshold, his face lighted. “Roy Morton, by all that’s good!” he cried.
“Hello Saxe, old man,” came the answer, in a musical monotone surprisingly gentle from one so stalwart. “Got your letter, and here I am. Incidentally, I’m tickled to death over the idea of some real excitement. I haven’t had any since a jolly fight in Mexico with a detective, who thought I was an absconder from the States, and tried to hustle me across the border.” Morton thrust out a rather heavy chin, so that in a twinkling his face grew threatening, savage; his kindly blue eyes paled, the lids drew closer. “I had colored souvenirs of his earnestness scattered all over my anatomy for a fortnight. But I didn’t have to have[16] a doctor to patch me up, and he did, so I was satisfied. In fact, I got the doctor for him as soon as he apologized for his mistake.” Morton chuckled at the memory. His face was again all amiability.
Saxe laughed. “You still wear a chip on your shoulder in order to entice somebody into a scrap,” he said.
“Nonsense!” Morton exclaimed, huffily. “You ought to know that I don’t want anything violent. I always try to steer clear of trouble. It’s only when something comes up that a man must resent for the sake of his self-respect that I ever resort to brute force. Why, I——”
Saxe ruthlessly interrupted:
“Oh, certainly, you’re a man of peace, all right! Only—ah, here’s one of them.”
Saxe sprang to his feet, and hurried to the door, on which an imperative knocking sounded. As he turned the knob, the newcomer pushed his way into the room unceremoniously, a man as tall as Morton, but whose six feet of height bulked much larger by reason of the massive build and large head, thatched shaggily with thick, iron-gray hair. The face[17] showed rugged ugliness, emphasized by muddy skin. His voice was wheezy from climbing the stairs.
“Well, and what’s it all about? What and why? Filibustering? Abduction? Sunken treasure? Count me in on the scheming, strategy, conspiring, plotting. But leave me out when it comes to donning the diving-suit, or engaging in the merry sword-play at the head of the stairs, or any aviation. Well, well, it’s like old times to be together.” He had shaken hands with the two men while speaking, serenely disregarding their verbal greetings, for his huge voice boomed over theirs. “No cigarette,” he concluded, waving away the offered box, as he sank down beside Morton on the couch. “I prefer a man’s smoke.” He drew forth, prepared and lighted an especially fat and black cigar. “The doctor says I smoke too much,” he added, comfortably, after inhaling a startling volume of the smoke.
Saxe smiled unsympathetically.
“It’s eating so much and taking no exercise that makes you puffy.”
Billy Walker snorted indignantly.
“I only eat enough to keep this absurdly[18] large carcass of mine properly stoked,” he declared. “Of course, I don’t take violent exercise. I want my strength for brain-work. You can’t use the same vital force in two ways. If I wanted to be intellectually foolish like you and Roy, why, I’d consume my energy in keeping hard as nails. I, however, prefer intelligence to biceps—where’s Dave?”
“That’s the answer,” Saxe exclaimed, as a knock again sounded.
A moment later, David Thwing, the third and last guest, was in the room. He was the only short member of the group, but he was broad across the shoulders, with a stocky form that promised unusual strength. He might have been good-looking, but for the fact that his nose had once been disastrously smashed and never rightly repaired. Its present outline was as choppy as the Channel seas in a gale. It gave to his face a suggestion of the prize-ring.
Now that the party was complete, Saxe bade his guests take their places at the table.
“No explanations till we’re done with the meal,” he announced, in answer to the questions of his friends.
[19]It was only when the table had been cleared of all save decanters and glasses and smoking materials, that he at last stood up to address his friends. A certain formality in his manner arrested their attention, and they regarded him with a sudden increase of curiosity.
“It’s now six years since we left the university,” Saxe began. “In the last year, we made a boyish pact. We agreed to answer the call of anyone of us who became embarked in adventure of a sort to require the assistance from the others. So I have summoned you in accordance with the terms of our agreement; you see, I really have a sort of adventure to offer you, though perhaps you’ll think I’m a bit selfish in the matter, for the profit will be all mine. Roy, however, has made money enough so that he doesn’t need any more, and Billy always did have more than he could spend, with his foolish ideas of just learning things, instead of living them. Dave is reasonably poor, but, too, he’s reasonably honest, and so he’s better off without the temptations of great wealth. I’ve come to the conclusion, after careful reflection, that I’m the only one of the quartette who actually is in want of money.[20] My tastes are luxurious, and, too, I have ambitious projects in the direction of operas that I wish to write. I can’t give myself to such serious work while I have to turn all my energies into musical pot-boilers to soothe the savage breast of the wolf at the door.”
“The metaphor is mixed,” Billy Walker grumbled. “The purpose of pot-boilers is to soothe the stomach, not the breast. But what could be expected of a composer essaying oratory?”
Saxe accepted the criticism without rancor.
“Anyhow, I’ll let that stand by way of introduction,” he continued. “The pith of the matter is this: I’ve had some money left to me, a tidy sum in fact.”
Instantly, there came a chorus of congratulations from his friends. But the host waved his hand for silence, while he shook his head lugubriously.
“I’m not exactly ready for congratulations yet,” he declared, when they had fallen silent again. “It’s true, I’ve had some money left to me, but the deuce of it is, I don’t know where the money is.”
Exclamations burst forth anew, eager questionings.
[21]“The simplest way of explaining the whole affair,” Saxe went on, “is to make it known to you in the form in which it was made known to me:
“The morning of the day on which I wrote to you, I received a letter. That letter was the first warning I had of this possible adventure. Now, I’ll read the letter to you, and then you’ll have the same knowledge of the whole matter as I have. By way of preface, I need only say that the writer of the letter has since died, and I have been formally notified by his lawyer concerning the old man’s will, in exact accordance with the terms of the letter he wrote me.”
The young man took from his breast-pocket a typewritten letter, and proceeded to read it aloud. From the first word to the last, the auditors sat silent, almost without movement, save now and then for the relighting of cigar or cigarette.
The letter ran as follows:
Saxe Temple, Esq.,
New York City.
Dear Sir:
It will doubtless astonish you at the outset to receive[22] a letter of this length from one who is a complete stranger to you. It will astonish you still more when you learn the contents of this communication. I shall, however, set forth the facts in such wise as may enable you to grasp them understandingly. For your opinion concerning them or me I care little. I am, in fact, making use of you as a sort of sop to conscience on finding myself face to face with death.
All that you need to know is this:
I am a musician. All the love of my life has been given to music—with two exceptions, of which I shall write later on in this letter. As to the music, I have loved it as an amateur, for I was of independent means with no need to mix in the sordid struggle for money. I have never written for production. I have been content for the most part merely to study, to apprehend as best I might the work of the masters. What I have myself composed has been of a wholly desultory sort, fragments of fragmentary ideas. I have fashioned now and then the motif of a theme. I have scientifically worked out by an application of mathematical laws, based on ratios of vibration, certain new things in the way of harmony. All these I have left to you unconditionally. I dare hope and believe that you will be able to make some use of the material. If you do so, pray spare yourself the pains of giving me any credit—if your honesty be over-nice—or worrying your conscience if you chance to be dishonest. I have no idea that I shall be messing around anywhere in your environment after I am once dead, and the world’s praise can be less than nothing to me after I have gone from earth. But because you are a musician and, as I have come to believe, an earnest one, I have decided to make you heir to my musical legacies certainly—to my money perhaps. I’ll explain the “perhaps” presently.
But first I must tell you of the love that rivaled my love for music. This was for your mother. On that[23] account my thoughts have been directed to you with special force. On that account this letter to you and all this letter implies.
Your mother as a girl possessed a wonderful natural voice and, too, the soul of a musician. It so chanced that she and I were neighbors and we met often socially. I was only a few years older than she, and I was already skilled in music, for I had devoted myself to the study of it from childhood. I recognized the supreme worth of her voice at the first hearing. I fell in love with your mother then—as a man with a woman, yes—even more as a musician in love, with a glorious instrument of music. It soon became evident that while she liked me, she could not love me as a wife should love her husband. I realized the truth, and though I suffered as an emotional temperament must suffer in such case, I did not despair. The musician in me triumphed over the man for I rejoiced in the glorious gift that she would manifest to the world. So I merged my passion for the woman in the enthusiasm of the maestro for his pupil. I offered myself as her teacher and she accepted me in that capacity. For two years I taught her. Under my training, her method became perfect. Her soul, too, grew, so that she had sympathy and understanding.
Then, just when she was all prepared for her triumph and my own, she fell in love with your father. She married him. In spite of all my prayers, my reproaches, my supplications, she abandoned her career for love’s sake. Her husband was opposed to his wife’s appearing in public as a singer. She yielded to his wishes without remonstrance. I believe she was happy in her way because she loved your father sincerely, and she counted no sacrifice too great for love.
You, as a musician, can apprehend perhaps the suffering I underwent in consequence of this disappointment. It sickened me of my fellows—made me a[24] recluse. It was in my life of retirement that I developed my third love—that of the miser for gold. I secretly transformed all my possessions into gold, which I kept in a secret safe here in my house. Oh, the hours of night during which I have worshiped before the shining heaps! But enough has been written at one time and another over the raptures of the miser, a rapture without justification in reason, yet more masterful than any other. I shall not weary you with explanation or excuse. The statement of the fact alone is sufficient.
Now at last I find myself the victim of a disease that must end my life course within a few days, perhaps hours. It becomes necessary then for me to dispose of my wealth. I am without relations with the exception of a distant cousin and her daughter, who are already well-to-do. To this daughter I have left my house here and the land that goes with it—a thousand acres—which has some value today and will have more very soon, as the region is being opened up.
For the bulk of my wealth, which as I have said is in gold, I have selected you as a possible heir, but you must do your part. I have thus chosen you because I dare hope that by it you may be helped in accomplishing something of worth in the art of music and so atone in some measure for the loss occasioned by your mother’s abandonment of her career. The condition which I have imposed on this legacy is merely to test you as to your perseverance and your intelligence. In the event of your failure, half of the money will go to the girl, and the other half to the founding of a musicians’ home.
After my death you will be notified by my lawyer, who has my will duly drawn in accordance with the conditions I here roughly explain. At once then, you will come to this place and here conduct a search for my treasure-chest, which contains three hundred thousand dollars in gold. If you discover this within[25] a month from the day of my death, this treasure shall be yours absolutely. If you fail in the quest the seals of my description of the hiding-place, which has been deposited with my lawyer, will be opened and the treasure secured, to be divided between my young kinswoman, Margaret West, and the establishing and endowing of a home for disabled musicians.
Because you are the son of your mother whom I loved, and because you are a musician of promise, I have thus chosen you as my possible heir. If you are as acute as I think, you will easily discover the necessary clues to the hiding-place of the gold. In the hunt you have full liberty to use any means you wish, with the privilege of residing in the house here with your helpers—if you employ them—during the length of the time allowed you.
Yours truly,
Horace Abernethey.
As he finished the reading, Saxe folded the sheets, and replaced the letter in his pocket. Then, he sank back into his chair, and surveyed his friends quizzically.
“Well?” he demanded.
David Thwing beamed happily through the heavy lenses of his eyeglasses, as he spoke:
“And so you want us to go with you, and of course we will.” He gazed benignantly on his fellow guests, then opened his mouth, and trolled in a musical baritone, “A hunting we will go!” Roy swung into the measure[26] with a nicety of accord in the tenor that told of old-time practice. Saxe added his bass, and the song rang out in an harmonious prophecy of success.
As the refrain ceased, Billy Walker expressed himself whimsically:
“This comes as a great relief to me,” he explained, grinning cheerfully. “I’m all tied up with commission for erudite essays I’ve promised to write. I’ve been unable to figure any way in which I could fulfill my obligations. Now, by cutting the whole thing, the difficulty will be removed. I shall simply disappear with you. Saxe, old boy, I thank you. When do we start?”
“And you, Dave?” the host questioned eagerly, though this friend had already given consent for the three.
“I haven’t a blessed thing to do,” was the contented answer. “Apart from the pleasant thrill incident to this questing for hidden treasure, your wish for my assistance gives me a new feeling of self-respect, due to the fact of having something in the nature of business to attend to. When do we start?”
Roy Morton nodded amiably, as Saxe[27] turned in his direction.
“Of course,” he declared. “When do we start?”
“You’re trumps, all of you,” the host declared, gratefully. “I knew I could depend on you, but to have your assurance takes a weight off my mind all the same. I’d feel infernally helpless, alone on the job. With you chaps standing by, I know we’ll win out. As for starting, well, time is important—there’s a bit less than a month now left to us. I’ve looked up trains. There’s a good one that starts in the afternoon. I know it’s awfully short notice, but, if you could manage to make it tomorrow, why—” he halted doubtfully, to stare at his friends.
“Tomorrow it is!” boomed Billy Walker; and the others echoed agreement.