“I’ll see you in hell first.”
“Oh, Susan! Language!”
“I am clearing out of here. I’ve had enough of you all. I’ll send for my box to-morrow.” She flounced for the door.
“Good-bye, Susan. Paregoric is the stuff. . . . Now,” he continued, turning suddenly from lively to severe when the door had closed behind the flushed and angry woman, “this gang means business. Look how close they play the game. Your letter to me had the 10 p.m. postmark. And yet Susan passes the word to Barney. Barney has time to go to his employer and get instructions; he or she—I incline to the latter from Susan’s grin when she thought I had blundered—forms a plan. Black Steve is called in, and I am warned off by eleven o’clock next morning. That’s quick work, you know.”
“But what do they want?”
“Yes, that’s the question. Who had the house before you?”
“A retired sea captain, called Ferguson.”
“Anything remarkable about him?”
“Not that ever I heard of.”
“I was wondering whether he could have buried something. Of course, when people bury treasure nowadays they do it in the Post Office bank. But there are always some lunatics about. It would be a dull world without them. At first I thought of some buried valuable. But why, in that case, should they want your furniture? You don’t happen to have a Raphael or a first folio Shakespeare without knowing it?”
