“It does, sir,” said Miss Belcher, unfolding the chart and pointing.

Dr. Beauregard adjusted a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses and bent towards it.  The writing was indistinct, and he put out a hand as if to take hold of the edge of the parchment and steady it.  The hand, I noticed, did not tremble at all.

“Stay a moment, sir.”  Miss Belcher turned the chart over.  “The clue is given here, upon the back.  Listen.”  And she translated:—­

     “’Right bank of river a mile and a half up from Gow Creek. 
       Centre tree in clump of five:  branch bearing north and half a
       point east:  two forks—­’”

“My trees!” exclaimed the Doctor.  “You remember my halting and pointing them out to you?  Ah, yes, and I, too, remember now that you appeared to be disconcerted.  You recognized them, of course?”

“Yes, we recognized them,” Miss Belcher admitted.  But let me finish:—­”

     “’Right fork, four feet.  Red cave under hill, four hundred and
       seventy-five yards from foot of tree, N.N.W.  The stones here,
       under rock four spans, left side’”

“—­Which means, I suppose, that the cave lies some way up the face of the rock, and can only be seen by climbing out upon the right fork of the tree; and that the stones—­that is to say, the jewels—­are hidden under a rock to the left; which rock either measures four spans or lies, four spans within the entrance of the cave.”

“I know of no such cave, ma’am,” said Dr. Beauregard, bending his brows.  “Though, to be sure, the cliff is of a reddish colour thereabouts, due to a drip of water and the growth of some small fungus.”

“I was a fool,” said Captain Branscome, “to leave the tools in the gig.  If we go back to fetch them, sunset will be upon us before we get to work.”

The Doctor rose, with a smile.

“You might have guessed, sir, that I am not unprovided with spades and picks, or with ropes and a ladder, which also I foresee we shall need.  Come; if you have drunk your tea, I will ask you to follow me into the house—­the ladies included—­and choose your outfit.”

They went in after him.  I was in the act of following—­I had, in fact, taken a couple of steps towards the French window—­when a slight shiver seemed to run through my hair, and I stood still.

“Little boy!”

The words came in a whisper from the end of the verandah.  I stole back, and, leaning well across the rail, peered around the corner of the house.

“Little boy!” whispered the voice again, and I saw the little lady of the graveyard.  She was standing close back against the side-boarding, her body almost flattened against it.  “Come,” she whispered, beckoning with a timid glance over her shoulder towards the rear of the house.

I looked at her for a second or two, and shook my head.

“But you must come,” she insisted, still in a whisper, and took a step or two as if to entice me after her.  Then she halted, and, seeing that I made no motion to follow, came tip-toeing back.