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Updated: June 10, 2025
And where's the other ship following at our heels, as they always do in treasure hunts, the rival pirates who will cut our throats when we have dug up the treasure?" from Cathewe. "Treasures!" mumbled M. Ferraud from behind his pineapple. Carefully he avoided Fitzgerald's gaze, but he noted the expression on Breitmann's face. It was not pleasant. "Just a moment," the admiral requested patiently.
Well, M. Ferraud had told him to wait. There was nothing else for him to do. A little rubber at bridge was in progress. The admiral was playing with Mrs. Coldfield and Cathewe sat opposite Hildegarde. The latter two were losing. She was ordinarily a skilful player, as Cathewe knew; but to-night she lost constantly, was reckless with her leads, and played carelessly into her opponents' hands.
Cathewe watched her gravely. Never had he seen her more beautiful; and the apprehension that she would never be his was like a hand straining over his heart. Yes, she was beautiful; but he did not know that there was death in her eyes and death in her smile. Once upon a time he had believed that her heart had broken; but she was learning that the heart breaks, rebreaks, and breaks again.
There might be something in this. Two million francs did not appeal to him, but he realized that to others they stood for a great fortune, one worthy of hazards. He would talk this over with Cathewe and Fitzgerald and learn what they thought about the matter.
There was very little jesting, and what there was of it fell to the lot of Coldfield and the Frenchman. The spirit in them all was tense. Given his way, the admiral would have gone out that very night with lanterns. "Folly! To find a given point in an unknown forest at night; impossible! Am I not right, Mr. Cathewe? Of course. Breitmann's man knew Aïtone from his youth.
"My question first." "I choose not to answer it." Again they eyed each other like fencers. "Were you married?" Breitmann laughed. Here was his opportunity to wring this man's heart; for he knew that Cathewe loved the woman. "You seem to be in her confidence. Ask her." "A poltroon would say as much. There is a phase in your make-up I have never fully understood.
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.
"And Arthur Cathewe," concluded the admiral. "Cathewe? That will be fine," Fitzgerald agreed aloud. But in his heart he swore he would never forgive Arthur for this trick. And he knew all the time! "He's the best friend I have. A great hunter, with a reputation which reaches from the Carpathians to the Himalayas, from Abyssinia to the Congo." "He is charming and amusing. Only, he is very shy."
"Drop into my room before you turn in," urged Fitzgerald to Cathewe. "That I shall, my boy. I've some questions to ask of you." But a singular idea came into creation, and this was for him, Cathewe, to pay Breitmann a visit on the way to Fitzgerald's room. Not one man in a thousand would have dared put this idea into a plan of action.
"In life there is more adventure than romance, and there is seldom anything more incomplete in every-day life than romance." "That would be my own exposition, Mr. Cathewe," said Breitmann. The two fenced briefly. They understood each other tolerably well; only, Cathewe as yet did not know the manner of the man with whom he was matched.
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