Kennedy was holding up another bottle of keratin and some fruit seeds.  “I found these in a room in the hotel,” he added.

I did not comprehend.  “But,” I cut in, “the hand-bag—­the dinner—­ what of them?”

“A plant—­a despicable trespass on hospitality—­all part of a scheme to throw the guilt on some one else, worthy of a renegade and traitor.”

Craig wheeled suddenly, then added, with an incisive gesture, “I suppose you know that there is reputed to have been on one of these hills the headquarters of the old pirate, Teach—­’the mildest manner’d man that ever scuttled ship or cut a throat!’”

Kennedy paused, then added, quickly, “In respect to covering up your gun-running, Whitson, you are superior even to Teach!”

XII

THE SUNKEN TREASURE

     “Get story Everson and bride yacht Belle Aventure
     seeking treasure sunk Gulf liner Antilles.”

Kennedy and I had proceeded after a few leisurely days in St. Thomas to Porto Rico.  We had no particular destination, and San Juan rather appealed to us as an objective point because it was American.

It was there that I found waiting for me the above message by wireless from the Star in New York.

San Juan was, as we had anticipated, a thoroughly Americanized town and I lost no time in getting around at once to the office of the leading newspaper, the Colonial News.  The editor, Kenmore, proved to be a former New York reporter who had come out in answer to an advertisement by the proprietors of the paper.

“What’s the big story here now?” I asked by way of preface, expecting to find that colonial newspapermen were provincial.

“What’s the big story?” repeated Kenmore, impatiently pushing aside a long leader on native politics and regarding me thoughtfully.  “Well, I’m not superstitious, but a honeymoon spent trying to break into Davy Jones’s locker for sunken treasure—­I guess that’s a good story, isn’t it?”

I showed him my message and he smiled.  “You see, I was right,” he exclaimed.  “They’re searching now at the Cay d’Or, the Golden Key, one of the southernmost of the Bahamas, I suppose you would call it.  I wish I was like you.  I’d like to get away from this political stuff long enough to get the story.”

He puffed absently on a fragrant native cigar.  “I met them all when they were here, before they started,” he resumed, reminiscently.  “It was certainly a picturesque outfit—­three college chums—­one of them on his honeymoon, and the couple chaperoning the bride’s sister.  There was one of the college boys —­a fellow named Gage—­who fairly made news.”

“How was that?” inquired Kennedy, who had accompanied me, full of zest at the prospect of mixing in a story so romantic.