Among other family ties and encumbrances, Lulu possessed a nephew, Vasco Honiton, a young gentleman who was blessed with a small income and a large circle of relatives, and lived impartially and precariously on both.  The name Vasco had been given him possibly in the hope that he might live up to its adventurous tradition, but he limited himself strictly to the home industry of adventurer, preferring to exploit the assured rather than to explore the unknown.  Lulu’s intercourse with him had been restricted of recent years to the negative processes of being out of town when he called on her, and short of money when he wrote to her.  Now, however, she bethought herself of his eminent suitability for the direction of a treasure-seeking experiment; if anyone could extract gold from an unpromising situation it would certainly be Vasco—­of course, under the necessary safeguards in the way of supervision.  Where money was in question Vasco’s conscience was liable to fits of obstinate silence.

Somewhere on the west coast of Ireland the Dulverton property included a few acres of shingle, rock, and heather, too barren to support even an agrarian outrage, but embracing a small and fairly deep bay where the lobster yield was good in most seasons.  There was a bleak little house on the property, and for those who liked lobsters and solitude, and were able to accept an Irish cook’s ideas as to what might be perpetrated in the name of mayonnaise, Innisgluther was a tolerable exile during the summer months.  Lulu seldom went there herself, but she lent the house lavishly to friends and relations.  She put it now at Vasco’s disposal.

“It will be the very place to practise and experiment with the salvage apparatus,” she said; “the bay is quite deep in places, and you will be able to test everything thoroughly before starting on the treasure hunt.”

In less than three weeks Vasco turned up in town to report progress.

“The apparatus works beautifully,” he informed his aunt; “the deeper one got the clearer everything grew.  We found something in the way of a sunken wreck to operate on, too!”

“A wreck in Innisgluther Bay!” exclaimed Lulu.

“A submerged motor-boat, the Sub-Rosa,” said Vasco.

“No! really?” said Lulu; “poor Billy Yuttley’s boat.  I remember it went down somewhere off that coast some three years ago.  His body was washed ashore at the Point.  People said at the time that the boat was capsized intentionally—­a case of suicide, you know.  People always say that sort of thing when anything tragic happens.”

“In this case they were right,” said Vasco.

“What do you mean?” asked the Duchess hurriedly.  “What makes you think so?”

“I know,” said Vasco simply.

“Know?  How can you know?  How can anyone know?  The thing happened three years ago.”

“In a locker of the Sub-Rosa I found a water-tight strong-box.  It contained papers.”  Vasco paused with dramatic effect and searched for a moment in the inner breast-pocket of his coat.  He drew out a folded slip of paper.  The Duchess snatched at it in almost indecent haste and moved appreciably nearer the fireplace.