Well, when I get home with my Spanish doubloons there will be
another story to tell. I won't be poor crazy Peter then. And
Helen--oh, how often I wish I had told her everything! It was too
much to ask her to trust me blindly as I did. But from the moment
I came across the story in grandfather's old, half-forgotten
diary--by the way, the diary habit seems to run in the family--a
very passion of secrecy has possessed me. If I had told Helen, I
should have had to dread that even in her sweet sleep she might
whisper something to put that ferret, her stepmother, on the scent.
Oh, Helen, trust me, trust me!
December 25. I have a calendar with me, so I am not reduced to
notching a stick to keep track of the days. I mark each off
carefully in the calendar. If I were to forget to do this, even
for a day or two, I believe I should quite lose track. The days
are so terribly alike!
My predecessor here in the copra-gathering business, old Heintz,
really left me a very snug establishment. It was odd that I should
have run across him at Panama that way. I sounded him on the
question of treasure. He said placidly that of course the island
had been the resort of Edward Davis and Benito Bonito and others of
the black flag gentry, and he thought it very likely they had left
some of their spoils behind them, but though he had done a little
investigating as he had time he had come on nothing but a ship's
lantern, a large iron kettle, and the golden setting of a bracelet
from which the jewels had been removed.
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