“Say,” says I, “you ain’t lookin’ to put any such fancy tale as that over on Mr. Robert, are you?”

“I hope I can interest him in the enterprise,” says Killam.

“Well, take my advice and don’t waste your time,” says I.  “He’s a good deal of a sport and all that, but I don’t think he’d fall for anything so musty as this old doubloon and pieces-of-eight dope.”

“I have proofs,” says Rupert, “absolute proofs.”

“Got the regulation old chart, eh,” says I, “with the lone tree marked by a dagger?”

No, he didn’t have a chart.  He went on to say how the treasure was buried on a certain little island under a mound in the middle of a mangrove swamp.  He’d been there.  He’d actually helped dig into one corner of the mound.  He had four pieces of jewelry that he’d taken out himself; and nobody knew how many chests full was left.

“Back up!” says I.  “Why didn’t you go on diggin’?”

But he’s right there with a perfectly good alibi.  Seems, if he dug up anything valuable and got caught at it, he’d have to whack up a percentage with the owner of the land.  Also, the government would holler for a share.  So his plan is to keep mum, buy up the island, then charter a big yacht and cruise down there casually, disguised as a tourist.  Once at the island, he could let on to break a propeller shaft or something, and sneak ashore after the gold and stuff at night when the crew was asleep.

The Cap. explains that to do it right would take more cash than he could raise.  Hence his proposition for lettin’ in Mr. Robert to finance the expedition.  No, he didn’t know Mr. Robert personally, but he’d heard a lot about him in one way or another, and understood he was generally willin’ to take a chance.

“Maybe you’re right,” says I.  “Anyway, he shouldn’t miss hearin’ this lovely yarn of yours.  You come back with me and I’ll see if I can’t fix it durin’ the afternoon.  Let’s see, what did you say the name of this island was?”

“I didn’t say,” says Rupert.  “I can tell you the old Spanish name, however, which no one on the west coast seems to know.  It is Nunca Secos Key—­meaning the key that is never dry.”

“Huh!” says I.  “That listens better in Spanish.  Better not translate if you want to make a hit.”

“I am merely stating the facts as they are,” says Rupert.

He’s a serious-minded gink, and all frivolous cracks are lost on him completely.  He’s a patient waiter, too.  He sticks around for over two hours without gettin’ restless, until finally Mr. Robert blows in from the club.  First chance I gets, I springs Rupert on him.

“A guy with a great little scheme,” says I, winkin’.  “If you can spare ten minutes he’ll tell you something worth while, so he says.”

“Very well,” says Mr. Robert.  “But ten minutes must be the limit.”

Say, it was rich, too, watchin’ Mr. Robert’s face as he listens to this weird tale of pirates and buried gold.  First off he was tryin’ to be polite, and only smiled sarcastic; but when Rupert gets to spreadin’ on the romance, Mr. Robert starts drummin’ his fingers on the desk and glancin’ at his watch.