The idea had come to him in the middle of the previous night, and all that day the old diary had been in and out of his mind at odd and incongruous moments. Whilst it was not true that he had been won over to his brother’s faith in the existence of the treasure, his curiosity had been piqued by a vague recollection of one line in the diary. He turned it up now and read:

These ingots he shall put away in the safe place if yet the weather be dry and the drought continue, though rain is near at hand.

“I am only wondering,” he said, as he handed back the book, “what effect the drought had upon the hiding place; why rain would have spoilt his plan, as apparently it would.”

“Ha, ha!” said his lordship, almost boisterously. “The poison is working, Richard! You will become as ardent a treasure-hunter as I. Shall I tell you where the gold was hidden?” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his eyes gleaming. “In a cave, or an underground chamber of some kind. There are three references in this diary to a chesil.” He turned the pages rapidly. “Listen, here is one,” he said, and read:

“This day Tom Goodman brought me the chesil from Brighthelmstone.”

“Which is Brighton, I presume?” asked Dick.

His brother nodded, turning the pages.

“Here is another reference,” he said.

“The new chesil has come. I have left it near the place, and those dull wights who see it will know little of its value to me.”

Dick smiled.

“It must have been something remarkable in the way of chesils,” he said. “It doesn’t mention its size or its shape.”

“Nowhere; I have searched the diary for that.”

There came a tap at the door; it was Thomas.

“Will you have your coffee here, sir?”

“No, put it in my room.”

“Are you working tonight, Dick?” asked Chelford.

“After you’ve gone to bed, Harry,” said Dick, with a laugh, “and I think it is about time you went. One of these days you’ll have a breakdown and I’ll have to call in your pet abomination.”

“Ugh!” shivered Chelford. “Never bring a doctor into this house – I loathe them!”

He got up, stretched himself with a yawn, and Dick followed him out of the room.

“I shall sleep well tonight,” said his lordship, pushing back his long black hair with a characteristic gesture. “If I’d only known of that stuff before!”

“What stuff is this?” asked Dick good-humouredly.

Never a day passed that some new patent medicine did not come into the house, some cure-all, accompanied by pages of closely printed literature. Lord Chelford’s patent medicine habit was a vicious circle. The literature of one cure-all revealed symptoms of which he had never been conscious before. No sooner had he settled upon a miraculous nostrum than it was superseded by one even more dazzling in its promises.