ly did not betray the knowledge; it
was impossible to tell whether she mistrusted them or not, or what
feelings lay concealed under her forbidding exterior.

The moment breakfast was over, they rushed into the garden to renew
their acquaintance with the scene of their adventure. Somebody had
plainly been digging in the bank, though the traces had evidently been
tidied carefully up, and the sods replaced.

"Do you think there could be anything here?" said Cicely wistfully,
poking a stick into the loosened soil.

"Oh, dear me, no!" replied Lindsay. "Why, the first thing they'd do
would be to rush off with that sack to some safer spot. Even the very
stupidest persons wouldn't have gone on burying valuables in a place
where they knew they'd been watched. 'The Griffin' and Scott are
certainly not idiots!"

"If we could only guess where they'd put it!" sighed Cicely.

For the present they had had such a fright that, though neither would
confess it, both were a little inclined to let the matter rest in
abeyance. It needed courage to risk the anger of Mrs. Wilson and Scott
if they were once more caught meddling. It had seemed pleasant enough to
search for the treasure themselves in the house, but the affair was now
beginning to assume a graver aspect.

"I sometimes wonder if we ought to tell Monica or Miss Russell," said
Cicely, who occasionally had uneasy scruples as to the wisdom of their
plan of secrecy.

"It wouldn't be of the slightest use," declared Lindsay. "'The Griffin'
and Scott would simply deny everything. They'd make out it was all
nonsense on our part, like grown-up people generally do. And how could
we prove we were right? Miss Russell would tell us to mind our own
business, and we should only get into a scrape for our pains. No, we
shall just have to let things take their course, and trust to luck."

CHAPTER X

Under the Hawthorn Tree

It was high summer at Haversleigh. The trees, now in full leaf, cast
rich shadows over the landscape, the wild roses were in bloom on the
hedgerows, and tall foxgloves stood like crimson sentinels at the
margins of the woods. The fields were white with moon-daisies, growing
among the long, lush grass; and all the roadsides were a tangle of
vetches, campion, bugle, trefoil and speedwells. The wind was fragrant
with the scent of newly turned hay; everywhere the mowers were busy, and
the daisies were falling fast beneath the swinging scythe or the blades
of the r