Rupert smiles indulgent.

“Thank you,” says he.  “You need not fear.  I have kept my secret for three years—­and I still hold it.”

He’s a dramatic cuss, Rupert.  I leaves him posin’ in front of the mirror on the bathroom door, gazin’ sort of romantic at himself.

“Not a common, everyday nut,” as I explains to Vee that night, when I goes up for my reg’lar Wednesday evenin’ call, “but a nut, all the same.  Sort of a parlor pirate, too.”

“And you think there isn’t any buried treasure, after all?” asks Vee.

“Don’t it sound simple?” I demands.

“I’m not so sure,” says Vee, shakin’ her head.  “There were pirates on the Florida coast, you know.  I’ve read about them.  And—­and just fancy, Torchy!  If his story were really true!”

“What was the name of that island, again?” puts in Auntie.

Honest, I hadn’t thought she was takin’ notice at all when I was givin’ Vee a full account of my afternoon session with Rupert.  She never does chime in much with our talk.  And I judged she was too busy with her sweater-knittin’ to hear a word.  But here she is, askin’ details.

“Why,” says I, “Captain Killam calls it Nunca Secos Key.”

“What an odd name!” says Auntie.  “And you left him at some hotel, did you?  The—­er—­”

“Tillington,” says I.

“Oh, yes,” says Auntie, and resumes her knittin’ placid.

Course, there I was, gassin’ away merry about what Old Hickory wanted kept a dead secret.  But I usually do tell things to Vee.  She ain’t one of the leaky kind.  And Auntie don’t go out much.  Besides, who’d think of an old girl like that ever bein’ interested in such wild back-number stuff?  How foolish!

So I wasn’t worryin’ any that night, and at quarter of nine next mornin’ I shows up at the hotel to send up a call for Rupert.

“Captain Killam?” says the room clerk with the plastered front hair.  “Why, he left an hour or more ago.”

“Yes, I know,” says I; “but he was coming back.”

“No,” says the clerk; “he said he wasn’t.  Took his bag, too.”

“Wha-a-at!” I gasps.  “He—­he ain’t gone for good, has he?”

“So it seems,” says the clerk, and steps back to continue his chat with the snub-nosed young lady at the ’phone exchange.

How was that for an early mornin’ bump?  What was the idea, anyway?  Rupert had found a prospective backer, hadn’t he?  And was bein’ taken care of.  What more could he ask?  Unless—­unless someone else had got next to him.  But who could have heard of this—­

“Gee!” I groans.  “I wonder?”

I couldn’t stand there starin’ foolish across the register and do the wonderin’ act all day, though.  Besides, I wanted to follow a clew.  It ain’t a very likely one, but it’s better’n nothing.  So I slides out and boards a Columbus Avenue surface car, and inside of twenty minutes I’m at Auntie’s apartments, interviewin’ Helma, her original bonehead maid.