“Silence!” he roared. Then, quieter: “Mr. Hopple, is there a jewelry box buried on that line?”

“It is not,” Figg admitted. “Lightning. 1982.”

Mrs. Bramble called for Surveyor Figg. Figg was a man who measured things twice and still doubted himself. He produced a leather-bound map, yellowed and crumbly, dated 1847. “Right here,” Figg said, tapping a dotted line, “the shadow of the Old Mast Oak was to mark the western boundary at precisely twelve noon on Midsummer’s Day.”