The Treasure of the Bucoleon

The messenger was peering at the card above the push-button beside the apartment entrance as I came up the stairs. "Chesby?" he said laconically, extending a pink envelope. "He lives here," I answered. "I'll sign for it." The boy clumped off downstairs, and I let myself in, never dreaming that I held the key to destiny in my hand-or, rather, in the pink envelope. A samovar was bubbling in the studio, and my cousin Betty King hailed me from the couch on which she sat between her father and Hugh. "Here you are at last," she cried. "Dad and I have come to say good-by to you."