can not tell you."

"Then, I shall say nothing."

"About what?" dryly, even whimsically.

"About your being a secret agent from France."

This time M. Ferraud's glance proved that he was truly startled. Only
three times in his career had his second life been questioned or
suspected. He eyed his hands accusingly; they had betrayed him. This
young man was clever, cleverer than he had thought. He had been too
confident and had committed a blunder. Should he trust him? With that
swift unerring instinct which makes the perfect student of character,
he said: "You will do me a great favor not to impart this suspicion to
any one else."

"Suspicion?"

"It is true: I am a secret agent;" and he said it proudly.

"You wish harm to none here?"

"_Mon dieu_! No. I am here for the very purpose of saving you all
from heartaches and misfortune and disillusion. And had I set to work
earlier I should have accomplished all this without a single one of you
knowing it. Now the matter will have to go on to its end."

"Can you tell me anything?"

"Not now. I trust you; will you trust me?"

Fitzgerald hesitated for a space. "Yes."

"For that, thanks," and M. Ferraud put out a hand. "It is clean, Mr.
Fitzgerald, for all that the skin is broken."

"Of that I have no doubt."

"Before we reach Corsica you will know."

And so temporarily that ended the matter. But as Fitzgerald went over
to the chair just vacated by the secretary, he found that there was a
double zest to life now. This would be far more exciting than dodging
ice-floes and freezing one's toes.

Laura told him the news. Their guests would arrive that evening in
time for dinner.

It was Breitmann's habit to come down first. He would thrum a little
on the piano or take down some old volume. To-night it was Heine. He
had not met any of the guests yet, which he considered a piece of good
fortune. But God only knew what would happen when _she_ saw him. He
dreaded the moment, dreaded it with anguish. She was a woman, schooled
in acting, but a time comes when the best acting is not sufficient. If
only in some way he might have warned her; but no way had opened. She
would find him ready, however, ready with his eyes, his lips, his
nerves. What would the others think or say if she lost her presence of
mind? His teeth snapped. He read on. The lamp threw the light on the
scarred side of his face.

He heard some one enter, and his gaze stole o