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"The terrible shape began to change before their eyes."
JULES DE GRANDIN poured a thimbleful of Boulogne cognac into a wide-mouthed glass and passed the goblet back and forth beneath his nose with a waving motion, inhaling the rich, fruity fumes from the amber fluid. "Eh bien, young Monsieur," he informed our visitor as he drained the liqueur with a slow, appreciative swallow and set the empty glass on the tabouret with a scarcely suppressed smack of his lips, "this is of interest. Pirate treasure, you do say? Parbleu—c'est presque irresistible. Tell us more, if you please."
Eric Balderson looked from the little Frenchman to me with a half-diffident, deprecating smile. "There really isn't much to tell," he confessed, "and I'm not at all sure I'm not the victim of a pipe-dream, after all. You knew Father pretty well, didn't you, Dr. Trowbridge?" he turned appealingly to me.
"Yes," I answered, "he and I were at Amherst together. He was an extremely level-headed sort of chap, too, not at all given to daydreaming, and"
"That's what I'm pinning my faith on," Erie broke in. "Coming from anyone but Dad the story would be too utterly fantastic to"
"Mordieu, yes, Monsieur," de Grandin interrupted testily. "We do
