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Th' first-officer, Holleran here, an' me; nobody else knows what we're after, sir; unless you gentlemen abaft, sir, talked careless. I say 'tis serious, Commodore. He knows what we're lookin' fer." Holleran nudged his chief. "Tell th' commodore what we saw on th' way here." "Picard hobnobbin' with Mr. Breitmann, sir." Breitmann? The admiral's smile thinned and disappeared.
"I know it smells fishy. Laura, go ahead and read the documents to the unbelieving giaours. Mr. Fitzgerald knows and so does Mr. Breitmann." "Tell us about it, Laura. No joking, now," said Coldfield, surrendering his incredulity with some hesitance. "And if the treasure involves no fighting or diplomatic tangle, count me in.
Fitzgerald stumbled along toward M. Ferraud's room, murmuring: "All right, Mr. Breitmann; all right. But hang me if I don't hand you back that one with interest. Where the devil is that Frenchman?" as he hammered on Ferraud's door and obtained no response. He tried the knob. The door opened. The room was black, and he struck a match. M. Ferraud, fully dressed, lay upon his bed.
The admiral reached forth an arm and caught her, drawing her gently in and finally to his breast. Breitmann would have given an eye for that right. The picture set his nerves twitching. "I am not in the way?" "Not at all," answered the secretary. "I was just leaving." And with good foresight he passed out. "A thing of beauty is a joy for ever," murmured the admiral. "Fudge!" and she laughed.
Fitzgerald murmured aloud. "Yes, yes!" agreed a voice in good English, over his shoulder; "who will ever realize the misery of that boy?" Fitzgerald at once recognized his jousting opponent of the previous hour. Further, this second appearance refreshed his memory. He knew now where he had met the man; he even recalled his name. "Are you not Karl Breitmann?" he asked with directness. "Yes.
The admiral was like a boy starting out upon his first fishing-excursion. To him there existed nothing else in the world beyond a chest of money hidden somewhere in the pine forest of Aïtone. He talked and laughed, pinched Laura's ears, shook Fitzgerald's shoulder, prodded Coldfield, and fussed because the motor wasn't sixty-horse power. "Father," Laura asked suddenly, "where is Mr. Breitmann?"
There was something kingly in the contempt with which Breitmann swept the startled faces. He stepped up to the table, took up a full glass of wine and threw it into Picard's face. "Only one of us shall leave Corsica," said the dupe. "Certainly it will not be your majesty," replied Picard, wiping his face with a serviette. "His majesty will waive his rights to meet me.
And the wiry little man released himself and bustled away to his chair where he became buried in rugs and magazines. "Corsica to-morrow," said the admiral. "Napoleon," said Laura. "Romance," said Cathewe. "Treasures," said M. Ferraud. Hildegarde felt uneasy. Breitmann toyed with the bread crumbs. He was inattentive besides. "Napoleon. There is an old scandal," mused M. Ferraud.
But Laura, who was not aware of this ancient reserve, thought that both of them showed a lack of warmth. And Fitzgerald, who was watching all comers now, was sure that the past of his friend and Breitmann interlaced in some way. "So, young man," said Mrs. Coldfield, a handsome motherly woman, "you have had the impudence to let five years pass without darkening my doors. What excuse have you?"
As you never published a book which I have not read through five times excepting The Bible in Spain and Wild Wales, which I have only read once you will perfectly understand why I should be so desirous of meeting you. As you have very possibly never heard of me before, I would state that I wrote a collection of Ballads satirising Germany and the Germans under the title of Hans Breitmann.
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