l, and never a soul to tell him he is mad."

The scars faded a little, but Breitmann's eyes never wavered.

"The man hasn't a ghost of a chance." To Fitzgerald it was now no
puzzle why Breitmann's resemblance to some one else had haunted him.
He was rather bewildered, for he had not expected so large an order
upon M. Ferraud's promise. "Fifty years ago. . ."

"Ah! Fifty years ago," interrupted M. Ferraud eagerly, "I should have
thrown my little to the cause. Men and times were different then; the
world was less sordid and more romantic."

"Well, I shall always hold that we have no right to that treasure."

"Fiddlesticks, Laura! This is no time for sentiment. The questions
buzzing in my head are: Does this man know of the treasure's existence?
Might he not already have put his hand upon it?"

"Your own papers discredit that supposition," replied Cathewe. "A
stunning yarn, and rather hard to believe in these skeptical times.
What is it?" he asked softly, noting the dead white on Hildegarde's
cheeks.

"Perhaps it is the smoke," she answered with a brave attempt at a smile.

The admiral in his excitement had lighted a heavy cigar and was
consuming it with jerky puffs, a bit of thoughtlessness rather
pardonable under the stress of the moment. For he was beginning to
entertain doubts. It was not impossible for this Napoleonic chap to
have a chart, to know of the treasure's existence. He wished he had
heard this story before. He would have left the women at home.
Corsica was not wholly civilized, and who could tell what might happen
there? Yes, the admiral had his doubts.

"I should like to know the end of the story," said Breitmann musingly.

"There is time," replied M. Ferraud; and of them all, only Fitzgerald
caught the sinister undercurrent.

"So, Miss Killigrew, you believe that this treasure should be handed
over to its legal owner?" Breitmann looked into her eyes for the first
time that evening.

"I have some doubt about the legal ownership, but the sentimental and
moral ownership is his. A romance should always have a pleasant
ending."

"You are thinking of books," was Cathewe's comment. "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