anguish in her voice was as music to his ears.

"Dizzy, that's all. Better tell your father immediately. No, no; I
can get up alone. I'm all right. Fine rescuer of princesses, eh?"
with an unsteady laugh.

"You might have been killed!"

"Scarcely that. I tried to talk like they do in stories, with this
result. The maxim is, always strike first and question afterward. You
warn your father quietly while I hunt up Ferraud and Cathewe."

Seeing that he was really uninjured she turned and flew down the dark
corridor and knocked at her father's door.

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. There was a handkerchief
over his mouth and his hands and feet were securely bound. His eyes
were open.

CHAPTER XXIII

CATHEWE ASKS QUESTIONS

The hunter of butterflies rubbed his released wrists and ankles, tried
his collar, coughed, and dropped his legs to the floor.

"I am getting old," he cried in self-communion; "near-sighted and old.
I've worn spectacles so long in jest that now I must wear them in
earnest."

"How long have you been here?" asked Fitzgerald.

"I should say about two hours. It was very simple. He came to the
door. I opened it. He came in. _Zut_! He is as powerful as a lion."

"Why didn't you call?"

"I was too busy, and suddenly it became too late. Gone?"

"Yes." And Fitzgerald swore as he rubbed the side of his head.
Briefly he related what had befallen him.

"You have never hunted butterflies?"

"No," sharply. "Shall we start for him while his heels are hot?"

"It is very exciting. It is the one thing I really care for. There is
often danger, but it is the kind that does not steal round your back.
Hereafter I shall devote my time to butterflies. You can make
believe--is that what you call it?--each butterfly is a great rascal.
The more difficult the netting, the more cunning the rascal . . . What
did you say?"

"Look here, Ferraud," cried Fitzgerald angrily; "do you want to catch
him or not? He's gone, and that means he has got the odd trick."

"But not the rubber, my son. Listen. When you set a trap for a rat or
a lion