“Nor I. But there’s land yonder,” he said, without an answering smile.

“Then,” in an awed whisper, “you believe something is going to happen there?”

“One thing I am certain of, but I can not tell you just at this moment.”

A bit of color came to her cheeks.  As if, reading his eyes, she did not know this thing he was so certain of!  Should she let him tell her?  Not a real eddy in the current, unless it was his fear of money.  If only she could lose her money, temporarily!  If only she had an ogre for a parent, now!  But she hadn’t.  He was so dear and so kind and so proud of her that if she told him she was going to be married that morning, his only questions would have been:  At what time?  Why, this sort of romance was against all accepted rules.  She was inordinately happy.

“There is only one thing lacking; this great-grandson himself.  He will be yonder somewhere.  For the man in the chimney was he or his agent.”

“And aren’t you afraid?”

“Of what?” proudly.

“It will not be a comedy.  It is in the blood of these Napoleons that nothing shall stand in the path of their desires, neither men’s lives nor woman’s honor.”

“I am not afraid.  There is the sun at last What a picture!  And the shame of it!  I am hungry!”

At half after six the yacht let go her anchor a few hundred yards from the quay.  Every one was astir by now; but at the breakfast table there was one vacant chair—­Breitmann’s.  M. Ferraud and Fitzgerald exchanged significant glances.  In fact, the Frenchman drank his coffee hurriedly and excused himself.  Breitmann was not on deck; neither was he in his state-room.  The door was open.  M. Ferraud, without any unnecessary qualms of conscience, went in.  One glance at the trunk was sufficient.  The lock hung down, disclosing the secret hollow.  For once the little man’s suavity forsook him, and he swore like a sailor, but softly.  He rushed again to the deck and sought Captain Flanagan, who was enjoying a pipe forward.

“Captain, where is Mr. Breitmann?”

“Breitmann?  Oh, he went ashore in one of the fruit-boats.  Missed th’ motor.”

“Did he take any luggage?”

“Baggage?” corrected Captain Flanagan.  “Nothin’ but his hat, sir.  Anythin’ wrong?”

“Oh, no!  We missed him at breakfast.”  M. Ferraud turned about, painfully conscious that he had been careless.

Fitzgerald hove in sight.  “Find him?”

“Ashore!” said M. Ferraud, with a violent gesture.

“Isn’t it time to make known who he is?”

“Not yet.  It would start too many complications.  Besides, I doubt if he has the true measurements.”

“There was ample time for him to make a copy.”

“Perhaps.”

“Mr. Ferraud?”

“Well?”

“I’ve an idea, and I have had it for some time, that you wouldn’t feel horribly disappointed if our friend made away with the money.”