“What’s to be done, now?” asked Milo, turning instinctively to Gavin for orders.

The question brought the dazedly joyous man back to his senses.  With exaggerated matter-of-factness, he made reply: 

“Why, the most sensible thing we can all do just now is to eat dinner.  A square meal works wonders in bracing people up.  Miss Standish, do you think you can rouse the maids to an effort to get us some sort of food?  If not, we can forage for ourselves, in the icebox.  What do you think?”

* * * * * * *

Two hours later—­after a sketchy meal served by trembling-handed servants—­the trio were seated in the music-room.  Over and over, a dozen times, they had reviewed their position, from all angles.  And they had come to the conclusion that the sanest thing to do was to wait in comfortable safety behind stoutly shuttered windows until the dawn of day should bring the place’s laborers back to work.  Daylight, and the prospect of others’ presence on the grounds, was certain to disperse the Caesars.  And it would be ample time then to go to Miami and to safer quarters, while Gavin should start the hunt after Rodney Hade.  The two men had agreed to divide the night into watches.

“One of the torpedo-boat destroyers down yonder, off Miami, can ferret out Hade’s yacht and lay it by the heels, in no time,” explained Brice.  “His house is watched, always, lately.  And every port and railroad will be watched, too.  The chief reason I want to get hold of him is to find where he has sent the treasure.  You have no idea, either of you?”

“No,” answered Milo.  “He explained to me that he was sending it North, to a place where nobody could possibly find it, and that, as soon as it was all there, he’d begin disposing of it.  Then we were to have our settlement, after it was melted down and sold.”

“Who works with him?  I mean, who helps him bring the stuff here?  Who, besides you, I mean?”

“Why, his yacht-crew,” said Milo.  “They’re all picked men of his own.  Men he has known for years and has bound to himself in all sorts of ways.  He has only eleven of them, for it’s a small yacht.  But he says he owns the souls of each and every one of the lot.  He pays them double wages and gives them a fat bonus on anything he employs them on.  They’re nearly all of them men who have done time, and—­”

“A sweet aggregation for this part of the twentieth century!” commented Gavin.  “I wish I’d known about all that,” he added, musingly.  “I supposed you and one or two men like Roke were the only—­”

“Roke is more devoted to him than any dog could be,” said Claire.  “He worships him.  And, speaking of dogs, I left Bobby Burns in the kitchen, getting his supper.  I forgot all about him.”

She set down Simon Cameron, who was drowsing in her lap, and got to her feet.  As she did so, a light step sounded in the hallway, outside.  Gavin jumped up and hurried past her.