The county record. [volume] (Kingstree, S.C.) 1885-1975, 1904-06-16
CHAPTER XVI.
EXIT UNCLE SAM.

"Truly, the ways of the parent are
peculiar! If you wanted your son
knocked on the head, were there not
enough people in London able and will
ing to execute your commission, but
you must needs send for him to this
place? Come, tell me how it all hap
pened."
Thus spake the cneery voice Of uncle
Sam rs he entered our drawing room
the next morning after the events mar
rated in the last chapter. Though still
depressed in spirit pow chiefly be-
cause Of the horrible suspicion which
I knew my father entertained), l was
fairly we'll in health, and was dressed
TO receive our visitor. Ny fathers mel
anchoIy was more apparent than mine,
and his serious demeanor contrasted
strangely with the buoyant gaiety Of
his brother.
Ernest had an awkward fall on the
stone floor of the crypt late on Mon
day night or on Tuesday morning, and
| lay there unconscious for some time
before he was discovered. That is
ALL" answered my father, 'but he is
nearly, if not quite. well now
ION the floor of the crypt" echoed
uncle Sam. in tone of surprise. What
was he doing in the crypt at that un-
earthly hour? No, no; 1 beg your par
don. Don't tell me, 1 don't want to
know-I remember my OWE little es-
capades when l was about his age.
Really, the faculty Of blushing in
young man will delude even the old
and experienced more effectually than
the most skilful lying. So, Ernest, you
young dog, you are no better than
other people, eh? But enough of this.
How are Knight and Faulkner getting
on with the renovations? l hope they
are pushing the work vigorously. l
would like to see the place completed
and decent before 1 return to New
York / gave them carte blanche to
do everything necessary to be done.
and particularly insisted on despatch"
My father looked intensely glum as
he listened to this speech, and some
moments elapsed before he spoke. AS
for myself, it was a considerable time
before could resolve my uncle's
words; and desiring not to commit my
self, remained silent
Your judgment or motive is not so
good SIS it might be in this case, Sam.
Nv boy has discovered perfectly reli-
able evidence that quarter Of a mil
lion Venetian seQuins were concealed
by old Roger Trueman in the Abbot's
Cell here, and wishing to pleasantly
surprise me decided to withhold his
information until he had verified it.
This is why he visited the place on
Monday night, when he found the place
and ten chests as indicated by Roger
Trueman himself; but with this differ
ence. that all the chests had been
opened, and every sequin stolen.'
'Stolen!' exclaimed uncle Sam;
.'how do you know that? And if 60,
how can you tell whether they were
stolen a year or a century ago."
Very easily. BY merely examining
the cell and the chests, and consider
ing the attendant circumstances, any
one endowed with common sense is
bound to conclude that the robbery
was committed as recently as four or
FIVE days ago"
Positively you astound me. Have
you examined your servants and
My father shrugged his shoulders
and smiled grimly. There would be
no use in that" he said grimly.
Il think there would be very great
use in it, and that it ought to have been
done before. Really, you astound me.
Tell me the whole of the circum-
stances as briefly and clearly as you
can. At present, am not at all sat
isfied with the matter"
And 1 still less so. Ernest, tell
your uAcle all you know about il" and
with these words my father rose from
the couch on which we were all three
sitting and walked through the open
window to the veranda.
With tiuttering heart 1 begun my
task, describing the manner in which
/ had found and appropriated Roger
Trueman's Record (Which l read to
him in full, having provided .ayself
with the volume for that purpoSe), and
with my subsequent proceedings. My
uncle listened with deep attention, only
occasionally diyerting his eyes from
me to look at his brother, who was
restlessly pacing up and down the
yeranda. In this way an hour or more
passed, and had completed my story.
Thank you" said uncle Sam. and
pressed his hand uron his forehead,
a habit of his when thinking. After
few moments he started to his feet
and walked to the window, l follow
ing him. Robert he cried, come
here; / have something to say to you
Ny father re-entered the room.