No, Miss Verona wasn’t at home.  She’d gone for her morning ride in the park.  Also Auntie was out.

“So early as this?” says I.  “When did Auntie get away?”

“Before breakfast yet,” says Helma.  “She telephone long time, then a gentlemans coom, and she go out.”

“Not a gent with pale hair and plenty of freckles on his face?” I asks.

Helma gazes thoughtless at the ceilin’ a minute.

“Yah,” says she.  “Den have funny face, all—­all rusty.”

“The sleuthy old kidnapper!” says I.  “Could she have pulled anything like that?  Here, lemme step in and leave a note for Miss Vee.  I want her to call me up when she comes in.  No I’ll dash it off right here on the lib’ry table.  Here’s a pad and—­”

I broke off there, because my mouth was open too wide for further remarks.  On the table was a big atlas opened to the map of Florida.  And on the margin, with a line drawn from about the middle of the west coast, was something written faint in pencil.

“Nunca Secos Key!” I reads.  “Good night!  Auntie’s got the bug—­and Rupert.”

“Vass it is?” asks Helma.

“I’m double-crossed, that’s what it is,” says I.  “I’ve had a nice long nap at the switch, and I’ve just woke up in time to see the fast express crash on towards an open draw.  Hal-lup!  Hal-lup!  I know I’ll never be the same again.”

“It’s too bad, yah,” says Helma sympathetic.

“That don’t half describe it,” says I.  “And what is goin’ to happen when I report to Old Hickory won’t be nice to print in the papers.”

“Should I say something by Miss Vee when she coom?” asks Helma.

“Yes,” says I.  “Tell her to kindly omit flowers.”

And with that I starts draggy towards the elevator.

Oh, no!  Private seccing ain’t always what you might call a slumber part.

CHAPTER X

WHEN AUNTIE CRASHES IN

You know Forty-seventh Street and Broadway, the northwest corner?  Say, would you judge there was a specially foolish streak runnin’ across town about there?  No, I don’t see why there should be; only it was exactly on that spot I was struck by the hunch that this kidnappin’ act of Auntie’s was a joke.

Now, look.  A freckle-faced parlor pirate with no more credentials than a park pan-handler blows in from nowhere particular, and tells a wild yarn about buried treasure on the west cost of Florida.  First off he gets Old Hickory Ellins, president of the Corrugated Trust and generally a cagey old boy, more or less worked up.  Mr. Ellins turns him over to me, with orders to watch him close while he’s investigatin’ the tale.  Then, when I’m gabbin’ free and careless about it to Vee, her Auntie sits there with her ear stretched.  She wants to know what hotel I’ve left the Captain at.  And the next mornin’ he’s gone.  Also on other counts the arrow points to Auntie.