Part 6

“I don’t!” said Edgar.

I sank back into my chair. With intense enjoyment I imagined the train in which we were seated hurling itself into another train; and everybody, including Edgar, or, rather, especially Edgar, being instantly but painlessly killed. By such an act of an all-wise Providence I would at once become heir to one million dollars. It was a beautiful, satisfying dream. Even MY conscience accepted it with a smug smile. It was so vivid a dream that I sat guiltily expectant, waiting for the crash to come, for the shrieks and screams, for the rush of escaping steam and breaking window-panes.

But it was far too good to be true. Without a jar the train carried us and its precious burden in safety to the Jersey City terminal. And each, with half a million dollars in his hand, hurried to the ferry, assailed by porters, news-boys, hackmen. To them we were a couple of commuters saving a dime by carrying our own hand-bags.

It was now six o’clock, and I pointed out to Edgar that at that hour the only vaults open were those of the Night and Day Bank. And to that institution in a taxicab we at once made our way. I paid the chauffeur, and two minutes later, with a gasp of relief and rejoicing, I dropped the suit-case I had carried on a table in the steel-walled fastnesses of the vaults. Gathered excitedly around us were the officials of the bank, summoned hastily from above, and watchmen in plain clothes, and watchmen in uniforms of gray. Great bars as thick as my leg protected us. Walls of chilled steel rising from solid rock stood between our treasure and the outer world. Until then I had not known how tremendous the nervous strain had been; but now it came home to me. I mopped the perspiration from my forehead, I drew a deep breath.

“Edgar,” I exclaimed happily, “I congratulate you!” I found Edgar extending toward me a two-dollar bill. “You gave the chauffeur two dollars,”’ he said. “The fare was really one dollar eighty; so you owe me twenty cents.”

Mechanically I laid two dimes upon the table.

“All the other expenses,” continued Edgar, “which I agreed to pay, I have paid.” He made a peremptory gesture. “I won’t detain you any longer,” he said. “Good-night!”

“Good-night!” I cried. “Don’t I see the treasure?” Against the walls of chilled steel my voice rose like that of a tortured soul. “Don’t I touch it!” I yelled. “Don’t I even get a squint?”

Even the watchmen looked sorry for me.

“You do not!” said Edgar calmly. “You have fulfilled your part of the agreement. I have fulfilled mine. A year from now you can write the story.” As I moved in a dazed state toward the steel door, his voice halted me.

“And you can say in your story,” called Edgar, “that there is only one way to get a buried treasure. That is to go, and get it!”