plainly showed that she
hadn't the faintest glimmering of a hope.

"It does seem so strange," said Patty, thoughtfully, "to have the two
directions, and both so explicit. No, not explicit, they're not that, but
both so definite."

"Hardly definite, either," said Bob, "except that they seem to reveal the
fact that there _is_ a fortune concealed about the place. Oh! it makes me
frantic! I feel so helpless."

"There's no use storming about it, Bob, my boy," said his mother. "And,
Patty, you mustn't set us down as too mercenary in this matter. But I
think you know that we, as a family, long for the means which would
enable us to keep up this dear old place as it should be, and not let its
beautiful parks and gardens go uncared for and neglected."

"I do know!" cried Patty; "and it makes me furious to think that the
money--your own money--is perhaps within your reach, and yet--you can't
get it! Oh, why didn't Mr. Marmaduke say just where he put it!"

"He did," said Bob, smiling.

"Yes, so he did. Well, I'd tear up every square foot of ground on the
whole estate, then."

"Remember, Patty," said Sinclair, in his quiet way, "there are nearly ten
thousand acres in all; and except for meadowlands and water, there are
oaks and firs on nearly every acre. The fortune itself would scarcely pay
for all that labour."

"Well, then, I'd tear the house to pieces."

"Oh, no you wouldn't," said Mrs. Hartley; "and beside, that has almost
been done. My husband had so much of the woodwork and plaster removed,
that I almost feared he would bring the house down about our ears. And it
is such a big, rambling old place, it is hopeless to think of examining
it really thoroughly."

Patty glanced around at the great hall she was in. The groined ceiling,
with its intricate carvings at the intersections; the cornice carved in
deep relief, with heraldic bosses, and massive patterns; the tall columns
and pilasters; all seemed part of an old monument which it would be
desecration to break into.

"I wonder where it is," she said; "indoors or out."

"I think it's out of doors," said Sinclair. "I think uncle hid it in the
house first, and then wrote his exquisite poem about the poke. Perhaps it
was merely a pocket of leather or canvas, that hung behind the headboard
of his own bed. In that case all prying into the walls would mean
nothing. Then, I think, as that was only a temporary hiding-place, he
later buried it in the ground between some