“You’re making fun of me.  What?” Esteban eyed the pair doubtfully.

“No, no!” Norine was indignant.  “Johnnie doesn’t believe in pirates or treasure, or—­anything.  He doesn’t even believe in fairies, and he’s Irish, too.  But I do.  I revel in such things.  If you don’t go on, I’ll blow up.”

“There is no doubt that my father had a great deal of money at one time,” Esteban began; “he was the richest man in the richest city of Cuba and ...”

O’Reilly shook his head dubiously and braced his back against a tree-trunk; there was a look of mild disapprobation on his face as he listened to the familiar story of Don Esteban and the slave, Sebastian.

Young Esteban told the tale well.  His own faith in it lent a certain convincingness to his words and Norine Evans hung upon them entranced.  She was horrified at the account of Don Esteban’s death; her eyes grew dark as Esteban told of his and Rosa’s childhood with their avaricious stepmother.  That part of the narrative which had to do with the death of Dona Isabel and the finding of the gold coin was new to O’Reilly and he found himself considerably impressed by it.  When Esteban had finished, Norine drew a deep breath.

“Oh!  That lays over any story I ever heard.  To think that the deeds and the jewels and everything are in the well at this minute!  How could you go away and leave them?”

“I didn’t think it out at the time.  I didn’t evolve my theory until after I had fled.  Naturally, I wasn’t able to get back.”

“But suppose somebody finds it?” Norine was aghast at the thought.

“Not much chance of that.  The treasure has lain there for a generation, and the story itself is almost forgotten.”  Esteban turned triumphantly to O’Reilly, saying, “Now then, do you think I’m so crazy?”

O’Reilly didn’t have it in his heart to say exactly what he really thought.  The circumstances of the discovery of the coin were odd enough, certainly, but it seemed to him that they were capable of several explanations.  If, indeed, there had ever been a doubloon and if Esteban had found it in the dead hand of his stepmother, that, in O’Reilly’s opinion, by no means proved the existence of the mythical Varona hoard, nor did it solve the secret of its whereabouts.  What he more than half suspected was that some favored fancy had formed lodgment in Esteban’s brain.

“It’s an interesting theory,” he admitted.  “Anyhow, there is no danger of the treasure being uncovered very soon.  Cueto had a good look and made himself ridiculous.  You’ll have ample chance to do likewise when the war is over.”

“You must help me find it,” said Esteban.  “We shall all share the fortune equally, you two, Rosa and I.”

“We?  Why should we share in it?” Norine asked.

“I owe it to you.  Didn’t O’Reilly rescue me from a dungeon?  Haven’t you nursed me back to health?  Don’t I owe my life to you both?”