Francis Sutton had pressed the knob of the electric bell, when he turned suddenly to the two men. “By the way,” he said, “whose mine was this?--yours or my father’s?” The naïvetté of the question took Lambaire off his guard. “Your father discovered it,” he said, unthinkingly, and as he stopped, Whitey came to his rescue. “But we floated it,” he said, in a tone that suggested that on the score of ownership no more need be said. CHAPTER IX AMBER SEES THE MAP Cynthia Sutton was twenty-three, and, by all standards, beautiful. Her hair was a rich chestnut, her eyes were big, and of that shade which is either blue or grey, according to the light in which they were seen. Her nose was straight, her upper lip short; her lips full and red, her skin soft and unblemished. “She has the figure of a woman, and the eyes of a child,” said Amber, describing her, “and she asked me to come to tea.” “And you didn’t go,” said Peter, nodding his head approvingly. “You realized that your presence might compromise this innercent flower. ‘No,’ you sez to yourself, ‘no, I will go away, carrying a fragrant memory, an’----’” “To be exact, my Peter,” said Amber, “I forgot all about the appointment in the hurry and bustle of keeping out of Lambaire’s way.” They were sitting in the little room under the roof of 19, Redcow Court, and the sweet song of the caged birds filled the apartment with liquid melody. “No,” continued Amber thoughtfully, “I must confess to you, my Peter, that I had none of those interestin’ conversations with myself that your romantic soul suggests.” He looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock in the forenoon, and he stared through the open window, his mind intent upon a problem. “I ought to see her,” he said, half to himself; he was groping for excuses. “This business of young Sutton’s ... compass and chart ... hidden treasures and all that sort of thing, eh, my Peter?” Peter’s eyes were gleaming from behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, and his hand shook with excitement, as he rose and made his way to the cretonne-curtained shelves. “I’ve got a yarn here,” he said, fumbling eagerly amongst his literary treasures, “that will give you some ideas: money and pieces of eight--what is a piece of eight?” He turned abruptly with the question. “A sovereign,” said Amber promptly, “eight half-crowns.” He was in the mood when he said just the first thing that came into his head. “Um!” Peter resumed his search, and Amber watched him with the gentle amusement that one reserves for the enthusiasm of children at play. “Here it is,” said Peter. He drew forth from a pile of books one, gaudy of colour and reckless of design. “This is the thing,”--he dusted the paper cover tenderly--“_Black Eyed Nick, or, The Desperado’s Dream of Ducats_; how’s that?” Amber took the book from the old man and inspected it, letting the pages run through his fingers rapidly.