Noticing this, the man who called himself Larone shot back a smile—winning enough to have disarmed any but a youth bristling with lover's doubts and alarms.
"You see," the former assured her, "the romantic codicil provides an escape. Perhaps it was not written by the pirates themselves, for the rogues wallowed in blood, not sentiment; perhaps it was added long ago by some owner of the place, or some spirit who rules over it. But it holds nevertheless.
"It says that no harm shall come of the gold to seeking lovers if they have plighted their troth, and so long as they remain faithful and true.
"You have complied with all those conditions, have you not, Mademoiselle?"
Her dark eyes were luminous now—and yet they were moist at a poignant note in the question.
Did she guess? I wonder! She never later mentioned such suspicions, if she had any, even in strictest confidence to her closest friend. No, we forget. There was one time
But she was speaking rapidly and hysterically to Ben; for some queer reason she could not trust herself just then to address the stranger.
"How blind we are! Don't you see? This treasure's not ours. It's his. Oh I forgot"—she turned nervously. It was a funny interruption. "Monsieur Larone, Mr. Boltwood, Captain Brent." So on down the line she introduced them. She seemed to be talking against time, to regain her wits which had stampeded suddenly. "I tell you, Ben, that treasure's his—oh, why don't you say something?"
Of course she hadn't given him time, and his masculine
