"And Satterlee's yacht," finished Philip, leaning on his oars, "was
laid up in Hoboken for repairs. Carl phoned his attorneys."
"You spoke of seeing Carl?"
"Yes. He was with his father then. Telegraphed me Monday. I have yet
to see such glow and warmth in the faces of men. They're going back to
Mic-co's lodge together for a while. Odd!" he added thoughtfully.
"I've known Satterlee for years, a quiet chap of wonderful kindliness
and generosity. But I've heard Dad tell mad tales of his reckless
whims when he was younger."
"And the first paper?"
"Satterlee had almost forgotten it. It's so long ago. If he thought
at all of its discovery it was to doubt any other fate for it than a
waste-paper basket or a fire. Anything else was too preposterous. But
he brooded a lot over the other. The most terrible results of his
foolhardy whim Carl pledged me not to tell him. Says the blame is all
his and he'll shoulder it. What little we did reveal, horrified
Satterlee inexpressibly. You see he'd found the candlesticks in a
ruined castle. They were sadly battered and he consigned them to a
queer old wood-carver to patch up. In the patching, the shallow wells
came to light, packed with faded, musty love letters from some young
Spanish gallant to somebody's inconstant wife, and the carver spoke of
them.
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