“How’s tea, Robert? ’Strordinary thing, here are you—most respectable fellow living—deliberately supplying a beverage that causes more scandal among its consumers than any other in the world. Opium’s a joke to it. Ever thought of that?” “No, and don’t intend to.” “Ha, well—it’s worth while. Hullo! Who’s this?” His eye fell upon Wynne. “This is my younger son. Wynne—come along, my boy—gaping there! Shake hands with your Uncle Clementine.” Wynne did not require a second invitation, but descended the stairs two at a time. “Frail little devil, aren’t you?” said Clem, enveloping the small hand of his nephew. “Jove! Robert, but there’s a bit of the old man in him—notice it? Something about the eyes—and mouth. How old are you, youngster?” “I’m nine,” said Wynne. “Nine, eh! Fine age. Just beginning to break the bud and feel the sun. Wish I were nine, and all to make. Don’t you wish you were nine, Robert?” “I do not.” “’Course you do. If you were breaking the bud at nine you wouldn’t graft the stem with a tea-plant. Would he, youngster? Not on purpose. He’d pitch it a bit higher than that—see himself a larkspur or a foxglove before he’d be satisfied. Well, what about this walk? Bring the youngster too.” “I think his mother has already arranged—” “Nonsense! If you don’t care to come he and I’ll go together. Get your hat, son.” For the first time in memory Wynne was grateful for the hat-rack being in the hall. He snatched his cap from a peg and ran into the front garden before his father had time to say no. Apparently Clem realized that an embargo would in all probability be placed on the expedition, for he only waited long enough to say: “Expect us when you see us,” and followed Wynne, closing the front door behind him. “Come on, youngster,” he ordered; “we must sprint the first mile or they’ll put bloodhounds on our track.” He gripped Wynne’s hand and raced him down the road. At the corner a fly was standing, with the driver dozing upon the box. “Jump in,” shouted Uncle Clem. Then “Drive like the devil, Jehu. We’ve broken into the Bank of England and Bow Street runners are after us.” The driver was a cheerful soul, and he whipped up the horse to a galumphing canter. Wynne was quite speechless from laughter and excitement. When at last he recovered his voice it was to say: “But you haven’t told him where to go, Uncle.” “Wouldn’t be half such fun if we knew. Besides, he’s a fellow with imagination—he knows what to do. He’ll take us to a secret place in the heart of the country where we can bury the treasure. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he took us to Richmond Park.” He spoke loud enough for the driver to hear, and was rewarded for his subtlety by an almost imperceptible inclination of the shiny black hat, and the cab took a sharp turn to the left along a road leading over the common in the direction of Sheen Gate.