"It was in a Pickwickian sense, sir," said Bates
gravely.
"And in a righteous cause," declared my grandfather.
"I assure you, Pickering, that I have every intention of
taking care of Bates. His weekly letters giving an account
of the curious manifestations of your devotion to
Jack's security and peace were alone worth a goodly
sum. But, Bates-"
The old gentleman was enjoying himself hugely. He
chuckled now, and placed his hand on my shoulder.
"Bates, it was too bad I got those missives of yours
all in a bunch. I was in a dahabiyeh on the Nile and
they don't have rural free delivery in Egypt. Your
cablegram called me home before I got the letters. But
thank God, Jack, you're alive!"
There was real feeling in these last words, and I
think we were all touched by them.
"Amen to that!" cried Bates.
"And now, Pickering, before you go I want to show
you something. It's about this mysterious treasure, that
has given you-and I hear, the whole countryside-so
much concern. I'm disappointed in you, Jack, that you
couldn't find the hiding-place. I designed that as a part
of your architectural education. Bates, give me a
chair."
The man gravely drew a chair out of the wreckage
and placed it upon the hearth. My grandfather stepped
upon it, seized one of the bronze sconces above the mantel
and gave it a sharp turn. At the same moment,
Bates, upon another chair, grasped the companion
bronze and wrenched it sharply. Instantly some mechanism
creaked in the great oak chimney-breast and the
long oak panels swung open, disclosing a steel door with
a combination knob.
"Gentlemen,"-and my grandfather turned with a
quaint touch of humor, and a merry twinkle in his
bright old eyes-"gentlemen, behold the treasury! It
has proved a better hiding-place than I ever imagined
it would. There's not much here, Jack, but enough to
keep you going for a while."
We were all staring, and the old gentleman was unfeignedly
enjoying our mystification. It was an hour
on which he had evidently counted much; it was the
triumph of his resurrection and home-coming, and he
chuckled as he twirled the knob in the steel door. Then
Bates stepped forward and helped him pull the door
open, disclosing a narrow steel chest, upright and held
in place by heavy bolts clamped in the stone of the chimney.
It was filled with packets of papers placed on
shelves, and tied neatly with tape.
"Jack," said my grandfather, shaking his head, "you
wouldn't be an architect, and you're not much of an
engineer either, or you'd have seen that that paneling
was heavier than was necessary. There's two hundred
thousand dollars in first-rate securities-I vouch for
them! Bates and I put them there just before I went
to Vermont to die."
"I've sounded those panels a dozen times," I protested.