"In that case," says I, "you'd better tell it to me; private sec., you
know. And if you make a date that's what you'll have to do, anyway.
Suppose you come along and feed with me. Then you can shoot the
details durin' lunch and we'll save time. Oh, I'll charge it up to the
firm, never fear."

The Cap. don't seem anxious to have his information strained through a
third party that way, but I finally convinces him it's the regular
course for gettin' a hearing so he trails along to the chophouse. And,
in spite of his flannel shirt, Rupert seems well table broken. He
don't do the bib act with his napkin, or try any sword-swallowin' stunt.

"Now, what's it all about?" says I, as we gets to the pastry and
demitasse.

"Well," says Killam, after glancin' around sleuthy and seein' nobody
more suspicious than a yawnin' 'bus boy, "I have found the lost
treasure of Jose Caspar."

"Have you?" says I, through a mouthful of strawb'ry shortcake. "When
did he lose it?"

"Haven't you ever read," says he, "of Gasparilla?"

"Is it a new drink, or what?" says I.

"No, no," says he. "Gasparilla, the great pirate, once the terror of
the Spanish Main. Surely you must have read about him."

"Nope," says I. "That Nick Carter junk never got to me very strong."

The Cap. stares at me sort of surprised and pained.

"But this isn't a dime-novel story I am telling," he protests. "Jose
Caspar was a real person--just as real as George Washington or John
Paul Jones. He was a genuine pirate, too, and the fact that he had his
headquarters on the west coast of Florida is well established. It's
history. And it is also true that he buried much of his stolen
treasure--gold and jewelry and precious stones--on some one of those
thousands of sandy keys which line the Gulf coast from Anclote Light to
White Water Bay. For nearly two hundred years men have hunted for that
treasure. Why even the United States Government once sent out an
expedition to find it. But I, Rupert Killam, have at last discovered
the true hiding place of that secret hoard."

Can you beat that for a batty conversation to be handed across the
table, right on Broadway at high noon? But say, take it from me, this
Rupert party is some convincin' spieler. With that low, smooth voice
of his, and them buttermilk blue eyes fixed steady and earnest on mine,
I was all but under the spell for a minute or so there. Then I shakes
myself and gets back to normal.

"Say,"