“Yes, I know,” nodded Philip with slightly impudent assurance; “but the moon is kind to lovers.”

“Tell me,” begged Diane with a bright flush, “about the second candlestick.”

Somewhat reluctantly, with the moon urging him to madness, Philip obeyed.  To Diane his words supplied the final link in the chain of mystery.

“And Satterlee’s yacht,” finished Philip, leaning on his oars, “was laid up in Hoboken for repairs.  Carl phoned his attorneys.”

“You spoke of seeing Carl?”

“Yes.  He was with his father then.  Telegraphed me Monday.  I have yet to see such glow and warmth in the faces of men.  They’re going back to Mic-co’s lodge together for a while.  Odd!” he added thoughtfully.  “I’ve known Satterlee for years, a quiet chap of wonderful kindliness and generosity.  But I’ve heard Dad tell mad tales of his reckless whims when he was younger.”

“And the first paper?”

“Satterlee had almost forgotten it.  It’s so long ago.  If he thought at all of its discovery it was to doubt any other fate for it than a waste-paper basket or a fire.  Anything else was too preposterous.  But he brooded a lot over the other.  The most terrible results of his foolhardy whim Carl pledged me not to tell him.  Says the blame is all his and he’ll shoulder it.  What little we did reveal, horrified Satterlee inexpressibly.  You see he’d found the candlesticks in a ruined castle.  They were sadly battered and he consigned them to a queer old wood-carver to patch up.  In the patching, the shallow wells came to light, packed with faded, musty love letters from some young Spanish gallant to somebody’s inconstant wife, and the carver spoke of them.  Satterlee impetuously bade him halt his work and wrote a wild letter to Ann Westfall begging her to let him hide the truth in the well of the candlestick with the forlorn hope that one day Carl might know.  This she granted.  Later he had the candlesticks brought to his apartments to be sealed in his presence.  As he took from his pocket the written account intended for Carl, another paper fluttered to the floor.  It was the deathbed statement of Theodomir which in a whimsical moment he had drawn up for the entertainment of your father.  He promptly consigned it to the other well with a shrug.  He was greatly agitated and thought no more about it.”

“A careless act,” said Diane, “to be fraught with such terrible results.”  Then she told the history of her father’s letters.

“A persistent moon!” said Philip, glancing up at its mild radiance.  “And my head is queer again.  Likely that very moon is shining on the minister in the village yonder.”

“Likely,” said Diane cautiously.

The boat swept boldly toward the western shore.

Diane raised questioning eyes to his.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I’m sorry,” said Philip.  “I did mean to tell you before.  It’s abduction.”