From Across the Ancient Waters by Michael Phillips

all these years without success. He had tried every means of persuasion possible to loosen the old fool’s tongue. He had craftily spoken with every septuagenarian and what few octogenarians remained within fifty miles, carefully and without betraying his intent.
    But years continued to pass.
    One by one they went the way of all flesh. Whatever knowledge they possessed passed with them. Fewer and fewer remained from that fateful century when fortunes were made—and hidden.
    He had finally discovered where the man was from. After Drindod’s retirement from the seafaring life, he had followed the old salt back to the home of his childhood.
    Then came a day when he realized the time could be delayed no longer. If he did not act soon, it would be too late. He would be left with nothing. He did not intend to let this night pass without discovering more about the mysterious coin.
    Pausing momentarily beside a wall of stone, the figure now hurried across a wide dirt street then along it another hundred yards. Though a conglomeration of cottages were scattered about inland, the buildings thinned northward along the shoreline beyond the harbor. With stealth he approached the seaward side of the street. Light from the moon was shielded by the low building in front of him.
    The Fleming woman’s description matched the place exactly. He crept toward its corner, paused briefly, then moved around it and temporarily into the thin glow. He did not hesitate. He set hand to the door and quickly entered. No homes in this region possessed locks.
    A sound of startled wakefulness from the occupant was brief. “What are … Who are you?” he said in the darkness.
    “Shut up, old man,” growled a low voice at the bedside. It made no attempt to disguise itself.
    “What are
you
doing here, Rup—”
    A large hand clamped over the aged lips. “Quiet, I told you!” rasped a whisper which could not hide its menace. “Get up. You’re coming with me.”
    The sleeping old man could hardly argue. Already his unwelcome visitor had rousted him from bed and was dragging him from the cottage in his bedclothes. The old man of eighty struggled feebly as he was pulled from his home. But the hand across his face prevented so much as a peep from escaping his lips.
    Twenty minutes later, away from the village on a lonely expanse of shoreline and beyond the hearing of all save the waves, which never slept, at last assailant and hostage stopped.
    The younger of the two released his prisoner and threw him rudely to the sand. “I’ve been patient all these years,” he said. “Now I want to know where it is.”
    “I don’t know what you mean,” said the old man. He attempted to climb to his knees.
    A rude kick sent him toppling over on his back. “You told me there was a coin.”
    “A small thing, of no value.”
    “You said it would lead to the rest.”
    “I was drunk. I didn’t know what I was saying.”
    “Maybe the whiskey loosened your tongue to tell the truth.”
    Silence was his only answer.
    “Where is it, Drindod! I want it … I want it all!” He bent to the sand and raised his hand to strike.
    “I told you before. The old man was dead by the time I saw him.”
    “Then how did you get the coin?”
    “I never had it.”
    “You said you saw it.”
    “Only once. And just for a moment. I could never get my hands on it.”
    “But you know who has it. Tell me and I may let you live!”
    “She has it!” the old man burst out, at last divulging his secret of many decades. “She’s had it all along.”
    “Who? Tell me!” cried the younger man. He grabbed Drindod with a huge fist and viciously yanked him to his feet and within six inches of his own leering face.
    “Little … little Bryn,” whimpered the old man in terror. For the first time in three-quarters of a century he spoke the nickname of his childhood acquaintance of that fateful day.
    “I’ve never heard that name! Who are you talking about?”
    “I tell you, the girl