“What name?” says I.

“Killam,” says he.  “Rupert Killam.”

“Sounds bloodthirsty,” says I.  “Cap’n, eh?”

“Why—­er—­yes,” says he.  “That is what I am usually called.”

“I see,” says I.  “Used to sail his 60-footer, did you?”

No, that wasn’t quite the idea, either.  That’s somewhere near his line, though, and he wants to see Mr. Robert very particular.

“I think I may assure you,” the Captain goes on, “that it will be to his advantage.”

“In that case,” says I, “you’d better tell it to me; private sec., you know.  And if you make a date that’s what you’ll have to do, anyway.  Suppose you come along and feed with me.  Then you can shoot the details durin’ lunch and we’ll save time.  Oh, I’ll charge it up to the firm, never fear.”

The Cap. don’t seem anxious to have his information strained through a third party that way, but I finally convinces him it’s the regular course for gettin’ a hearing so he trails along to the chophouse.  And, in spite of his flannel shirt, Rupert seems well table broken.  He don’t do the bib act with his napkin, or try any sword-swallowin’ stunt.

“Now, what’s it all about?” says I, as we gets to the pastry and demitasse.

“Well,” says Killam, after glancin’ around sleuthy and seein’ nobody more suspicious than a yawnin’ ’bus boy, “I have found the lost treasure of Jose Caspar.”

“Have you?” says I, through a mouthful of strawb’ry shortcake.  “When did he lose it?”

“Haven’t you ever read,” says he, “of Gasparilla?”

“Is it a new drink, or what?” says I.

“No, no,” says he.  “Gasparilla, the great pirate, once the terror of the Spanish Main.  Surely you must have read about him.”

“Nope,” says I.  “That Nick Carter junk never got to me very strong.”

The Cap. stares at me sort of surprised and pained.

“But this isn’t a dime-novel story I am telling,” he protests.  “Jose Caspar was a real person—­just as real as George Washington or John Paul Jones.  He was a genuine pirate, too, and the fact that he had his headquarters on the west coast of Florida is well established.  It’s history.  And it is also true that he buried much of his stolen treasure—­gold and jewelry and precious stones—­on some one of those thousands of sandy keys which line the Gulf coast from Anclote Light to White Water Bay.  For nearly two hundred years men have hunted for that treasure.  Why even the United States Government once sent out an expedition to find it.  But I, Rupert Killam, have at last discovered the true hiding place of that secret hoard.”

Can you beat that for a batty conversation to be handed across the table, right on Broadway at high noon?  But say, take it from me, this Rupert party is some convincin’ spieler.  With that low, smooth voice of his, and them buttermilk blue eyes fixed steady and earnest on mine, I was all but under the spell for a minute or so there.  Then I shakes myself and gets back to normal.