The Chase of the Golden Plate by Jacques Futrelle Page A

Then he began to say things, expressive things, burning things from the depths of an impassioned soul. The treasure had gone—disappeared into the shadows. The Girl was gone. He called, there was no answer. He drew his revolver fiercely, then reconsidered and flung it down angrily.
    â€œAnd I thought I had nerve!” he declared. It was a compliment.

CHAPTER III
    Extravagantly brilliant the sun popped up out of the east—not an unusual occurrence—and stared unblinkingly down upon a country road. There were the usual twittering birds and dew-spangled trees and nodding wild flowers; also a dust that was shoe-top deep. The dawny air stirred lazily and rustling leaves sent long, sinuous shadows scampering back and forth.
    Looking upon it all without enthusiasm or poetic exaltation was a Girl—a pretty Girl—a very pretty Girl. She sat on a stone beside the yellow roadway, a picture of weariness. A rough burlap sack, laden heavily, yet economically as to space, wallowed in the dust beside her. Her hair was tawny gold, and rebellious strands drooped listlessly about her face. A beribboned sombrero lay in her lap, supplementing a certain air of dilapidated bravado, due in part to a short skirt, heavy gloves and boots, a belt with a knife and revolver.
    A robin, perched impertinently on a stump across the road, examined her at his leisure. She stared back at Signor Redbreast, and for this recognition he warbled a little song.
    â€œI’ve a good mind to cry!” exclaimed the Girl suddenly.
    Shamed and startled, the robin flew away. A mistiness came into the Girl’s blue eyes and lingered there a moment, then her white teeth closed tightly and the glimmer of outraged emotion passed.
    â€œOh,” she sighed again, “I’m so tired and hungry and I just know I’ll never get anywhere at all!”
    But despite the expressed conviction she arose and straightened up as if to resume her journey, turning to stare down at the bag. It was an unsightly symbol of blasted hopes, man’s perfidy, crushed aspirations and—Heaven only knows what besides.
    â€œI’ve a good mind to leave you right there,” she remarked to the bag spitefully. “Perhaps I might hide it.” She considered the question. “No, that wouldn’t do. I must take it with me—and—and—Oh, Dick! Dick! What in the world was the matter with you, anyway?”
    Then she sat down again and wept. The robin crept back to look and modestly hid behind a leaf. From this coign of vantage he watched her as she again arose and plodded off through the dust with the bag swinging over one shoulder. At last—there is an at last to everything—a small house appeared from behind a clump of trees. The Girl looked with incredulous eyes. It was really a house. Really! A tiny curl of smoke hovered over the chimney.
    â€œWell, thank goodness, I’m somewhere, anyhow,” she declared with her first show of enthusiasm. “I can get a cup of coffee or something.”
    She covered the next fifty yards with a new spring in her leaden heels and with a new and firmer grip on the precious bag. Then—she stopped.
    â€œGracious!” and perplexed lines suddenly wrinkled her brow. “If I should go in there with a pistol and a knife they’d think I was a brigand—or—or a thief, and I suppose I am,” she added as she stopped and rested the bag on the ground. “At least I have stolen goods in my possession. Now, what shall I say if they ask questions? What am I? They wouldn’t believe me if I told them really. Short skirt, boots and gloves: I know! I’m a bicyclist. My wheel broke down, and—”
    Whereupon she gingerly removed the revolver from her belt and flung it into the underbrush—not at all in the direction she had intended—and the knife followed to keep it company. Having relieved herself of these sinister things, she straightened her hat,