“Hold my hat and stick a moment,” John Martin said, and making a spring, which for one of his age and weight showed surprising agility, he succeeded in catching hold of one of the nearest lateral branches.  The elm being old, the bark had become very gnarled and uneven, and thus the difficulty of ascension lay more in semblance, perhaps, than in reality.  Embracing the huge trunk, as closely as possible, with his arms and knees, much to the detriment of his clothes, seizing with his hands some projections, and resting his feet upon others, John Martin, after one or two narrow escapes from falling, at length wriggled himself into the first great fork, and paused to wipe his forehead.

“Oh, do take care, Father!” Gladys pleaded, “you’ll fall and break your neck.  Do be sensible and come down now.”

But John Martin paid no attention, he went on groping.

“I’ve found it,” he suddenly shouted.  “That bounder was right, the trunk is hollow.”  He was silent then, for some minutes, and Gladys could only see his boots.  Then there was a muffled oath, a sound of choking and gasping, which made Gladys’s blood run cold, and then—­a great cry.  “There’s something here, something hard and heavy.  It’s a box, an iron box!  Take it from me.”  And leaning as far down as he dared, he placed in Gladys’s outstretched hands, a rusty iron box.  Then there was the sound of scraping and tearing, and John Martin gradually lowered himself to the ground—­his coat covered with green, and the knees of his trousers ripped to pieces.

Gladys ran indoors for a hammer and chisel, and, the hinges of the box being worn with age and exposure, it was but the work of a few seconds to break it open.  It was full of gold and silver coins and jewellery; there were only a few gold pieces, the greater number of the coins were silver—­the bulk Georgian—­and their dates ranged from 1697 to 1750.  The jewellery consisted of several massive gold bracelets, (two or three of very fine workmanship); some dozen or so plain gold rings; two silver watches, and a varied assortment of silver trinkets.  All were more or less antique, but none—­apart from the gold bracelets—­of any great value.

“Well!” John Martin exclaimed, as they concluded their examination of the articles, “what do you make of it?”

“Why that man put them there, of course,” Gladys said, “can’t you see the whole thing is nothing but a dodge to intimidate you into forming a friendship with him.  I daresay he has heard that Mr. Davenport is dead, and thinks he sees an opportunity to be taken into partnership.  He had a horrid face—­sly and cunning, and his way of looking at me was positively disgusting.  It makes me feel sick and horrid even to think of it.”

“What shall we do with these things?” John Martin asked, picking up one of the watches and eyeing it with curiosity.

“Are they ours?” Gladys replied.

“I certainly consider we’ve a right to keep them,” her father said, “since we’ve found them ourselves on our own property, but I suppose, legally, they are treasure trove and ought to be given up.”