ad
gone, not with the expectation of finding anything, but to certify a
fact.

M. Ferraud was now in a great hurry. Forty miles to Corte; night or
not, they _must_ make the town. There was no dissention; the spell of
the little man was upon them all.

Hildegarde rode alone, in the middle carriage. Such had been her
desire. She did not touch her supper. And when, late at night, they
entered the gates of Corte and stepped down before the hotel lights,
Laura observed that Hildegarde's face was streaked by the passage of
many burning tears. She longed to comfort her, but the older woman
held aloof.

Men rarely note these things, and when they do it has to be forced upon
them. Fitzgerald, genuine in his regret for Cathewe, was otherwise at
peace with the world. He alone of them all had found a treasure, the
incomparable treasure of a woman's love.

Racing his horses all through the night, scouring for fresh ones at
dawn and finding them, and away again, climbing, turning, climbing
round this pass, over that bridge, through this cut, thus flew
Breitmann, the passion of haste upon him. By this tremendous pace he
succeeded in arriving at Evisa before the admiral had covered half the
distance to Carghese.

How clear and keen his mind was as on he rolled! A thousand places
wove themselves to the parent-stem. He even laughed aloud, sending a
shiver up the spine of the driver, who was certain his old _padrone_
was mad. The face of Laura drifted past him as in a dream, and then
again, that of the other woman. No, no; he regretted nothing,
absolutely nothing. But he had been a fool there; he had wasted time
and lent himself to a despicable intrigue. For all that he outcried
it, there was a touch of shame on his cheeks when he remembered that,
had he asked, she would have given him that scrap of paper the first
hour of their meeting. Somewhere in Hildegarde von Mitter lay dormant
the spirit of heroes. He had made a mistake.

Two millions of shining money, gold, silver, and English notes! And he
laughed again as he recalled M. Ferraud, caught in a trap. He was
clever, but not clever enough. What a stroke! To make prisoners of
the party on their return, to carry the girl away into the mountains!
Would any of them think of treasures, of conspiracies, with her as a
hostage? He thought not. In the hue and cry for her, these elements
in the game would fall to a minor place. Well he knew M. Ferraud: he
woul