“There,” said Ida triumphantly, “what do you think of that, Colonel Quaritch? The Bible, I think, was never sent to his son, but here it is, and in that writing, as I solemnly believe,” and she laid her white finger upon the faded characters, “lies the key to wherever it is that the money is hidden, only I fear I shall never make it out. For years I have puzzled over it, thinking that it might be some form of acrostic, but I can make nothing of it. I have tried it all ways. I have translated it into French, and had it translated into Latin, but still I can find out nothing—nothing. But some day somebody will hit upon it—at least I hope so.” Harold shook his head. “I am afraid,” he said, “that what has remained undiscovered for so long will remain so till the end of the chapter. Perhaps old Sir James was hoaxing his enemies!” “No,” said Ida, “for if he was, what became of all the money? He was known to be one of the richest men of his day, and that he was rich we can see from his letter to the King. There was nothing found after his death, except his lands, of course. Oh, it will be found someday, twenty centuries hence, probably, much too late to be of any good to us,” and she sighed deeply, while a pained and wearied expression spread itself over her handsome face. “Well,” said Harold in a doubtful voice, “there may be something in it. May I take a copy of that writing?” “Certainly,” said Ida laughing, “and if you find the treasure we will go shares. Stop, I will dictate it to you.” Just as this process was finished and Harold was shutting up his pocket-book, in which he put the fair copy he had executed on a half-sheet of note paper, the old Squire came into the room again. Looking at his face, his visitor saw that the interview with “George” had evidently been anything but satisfactory, for it bore an expression of exceedingly low spirits. “Well, father, what is the matter?” asked his daughter. “Oh, nothing, my dear, nothing,” he answered in melancholy tones. “George has been here, that is all.” “Yes, and I wish he would keep away,” she said with a little stamp of her foot, “for he always brings some bad news or other.” “It is the times, my dear, it is the times; it isn’t George. I really don’t know what has come to the country.” “What is it?” said Ida with a deepening expression of anxiety. “Something wrong with the Moat Farm?” “Yes; Janter has thrown it up after all, and I am sure I don’t know where I am to find another tenant.” “You see what the pleasures of landed property are, Colonel Quaritch,” said Ida, turning towards him with a smile which did not convey a great sense of cheerfulness. “Yes,” he said, “I know. Thank goodness I have only the ten acres that my dear old aunt left to me. And now,” he added, “I think that I must be saying good-night. It is half-past ten, and I expect that old Mrs. Jobson is sitting up for me.”