Events happened very rapidly with Francis Morgan,[1] inheritor of many millions, that late spring morning.
“Parker,[2]” he said to the valet who had been his father’s before him. “Parker, I’m going fishing.”
“Yes, sir!”
“I ordered some rods. Please joint them. Two weeks in the woods is what I need. You remember Sir Henry?[3] The old Sir Henry, the buccaneer?”
“Yes, sir; I’ve read of him, sir.”
Parker had paused in the doorway.
“Nothing to be proud of, the old pirate.”
“Oh, no, sir,” Parker protested. “He was Governor of Jamaica.[4] He was a respectable man.”
“Hm, we Morgans never found his treasure.”
A telephone buzzed. “One moment, sir,” said Parker. “It’s Mr. Bascom,[5] sir.”
Francis went to the phone.
“Hello, yes, this is I, Morgan. What is it?… To sell? Nothing of the sort… Of course, I’m glad to know. Nonsense. If it goes down five points,[6] buy. Buy all that’s offered. Sure… yes. Good-bye.”
* * *
And while Francis returned delightedly to his arm-chair, Thomas Regan[7] in his down-town private office arranged his various brokers to buy. Suddenly a clerk told him about a foreign visitor. Regan listened, glanced at the card, and said:
“Tell this Senor Alvarez Torres[8] that I can’t see him.”
Five minutes later the clerk was back, this time with a message. Regan read it:
“Dear Mr. Regan,
“Honoured Sir:
“I have the honour to inform you that I know the location of the treasure Sir Henry Morgan buried in old pirate days.
“Alvarez Torres.”
Regan shook his head.
“Let him in![9] At once.”
Senor Alvarez Torres’ English was perfect, though his skin advertised his Latin-American origin.[10]
“By great effort, and years of research, I have finally won to the clue to the buccaneer gold of Sir Henry Morgan,” he began. “Of course it’s on the Mosquito Coast.[11] The nearest town is Bocas del Toro.[12] I was born there, and I know the neighbourhood like a book. A small schooner is cheap, very cheap; but the reward is the treasure!”
Senor Torres paused in eloquent inability to describe more definitely.
“And sir,” Senor Torres continued, “I am somewhat embarrassed for immediate funds.”
“You need the money,” the stock operator assured him brutally, and he bowed.
Regan wrote a check, in the name of Alvarez Torres, and when that gentleman glanced at it he read the figures of a thousand dollars.
“Now here’s the idea,” said Regan. “I don’t believe a word in your story. But I have a young friend, and he is too tired to live in a big town, you understand?”
Senor Alvarez Torres bowed.
“Now, for the good of his health, as well as his wealth and the saving of his soul, the best thing that could happen to him is a trip after treasure, adventure, exercise, and… you readily understand, I am sure.”
Again Alvarez Torres bowed.
“You need the money,” Regan continued. “Try to interest him. That thousand is for your effort. If he departs after old Morgan’s gold, two thousand more is yours. If he remains away three months, two thousand more; six months – five thousand. Oh, believe me, I knew his father. We were comrades, partners, I might say, almost brothers. I can sacrifice any sum to his son. What do you say? The thousand is yours to begin with. Well?”
With trembling fingers Senor Alvarez Torres folded and unfolded the check.
“I… I accept,” he stammered and faltered in his eagerness. “I… I… How shall I say?… I am yours. Mr. Regan, it is true. I need the money. You are so generous, and I shall do my best…”
Senor Torres went away. In some minutes Francis Morgan came in.
