But
when one begins to sit about all night with his eyes open, the
devil's a friend.
Barclay was standing before the fire. The others had drifted
out. He's a big man pitted with the smallpox. He made a
gesture, flinging out his hand toward the door.
"That bunch thinks there's a curse on treasure, Sir Henry.
That's one of the oldest notions in the world . . . it's
unlucky."
"But I know where there's a treasure that's not unlucky. At
least it was not unlucky for poor Charlie Tavor. He did not get
it, but there was no curse on it that reached to him. It helped
poor Charlie finish in style. He died like a lord in a big
country house, with a formal garden and a line of lackeys."
Barclay paused.
"Queer chap, Tavor. He was the best all round explorer in the
world. I bar nobody. Charlie Tavor could take a nigger and
cross the poisonous plateau south west of the Libyan desert.
I've backed him. I know . . . but he had no business sense,
anybody could fool him. He found the stock of bar silver on the
west face of the Andes that made old Nute Hardman a quarter of a
million dollars, clear, after the cursed beast had split it a
half dozen ways with a crooked South American government.
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