young professor laughed tolerantly.

"Buried treasure!" he exclaimed. "If Ward has found treasure, and I
think he has, he's welcome to it. What we want is what you call the
broken pottery. It means nothing to you, but to men like myself, who
live eight hundred years behind the times, it is much more precious
than gold."

A few moments later Professor Peabody took his leave, and it was not
until he had turned the corner of the Calle Morazan that he halted and,
like a man emerging from water, drew a deep breath.

"Gee!" muttered the distinguished archeologist, "that was a close call!"

One or two women had loved Everett, and after five weeks, in which
almost daily he had seen Monica, he knew she cared for him. This
discovery made him entirely happy and filled him with dismay. It was a
complication he had not foreseen. It left him at the parting of two
ways, one of which he must choose. For his career he was willing to
renounce marriage, but now that Monica loved him, even though he had
consciously not tried to make her love him, had he the right to
renounce it for her also? He knew that the difference between Monica
and his career lay in the fact that he loved Monica and was in love
with his career. Which should he surrender? Of this he thought long
and deeply, until one night, without thinking at all, he chose.

Colonel Goddard had given a dance, and, as all invited were Americans,
the etiquette was less formal than at the gatherings of the Amapalans.
For one thing, the minister and Monica were able to sit on the veranda
overlooking the garden without his having to fight a duel in the
morning.

It was not the moonlight, or the music, or the palms that made Everett
speak. It was simply the knowledge that it was written, that it had to
be. And he heard himself, without prelude or introduction, talking
easily and assuredly of the life they would lead as man and wife. From
this dream Monica woke him. The violet eyes were smiling at him
through tears.

"When you came," said the girl, "and I loved you, I thought that was
the greatest happiness. Now that I know you love me I ask nothing
more. And I can bear it."

Everett felt as though an icy finger had moved swiftly down his spine.
He pretended not to understand.

"Bear what?" he demanded roughly.

"That I cannot marry you," said the girl. "Even had you not asked me,
in loving you I would have been happy. Now that I know you thought of
me as your wif