M. Ferraud shrugged; then he laughed quietly.

“Well, neither would I,” Fitzgerald added.

“My son, you are a man after my own heart.  I was furious for the moment to think that he had outwitted me the first move.  I did not want him to meet his confederates without my eyes on him.  And there you have it.  It is not the money, which is morally his; it is his friends, his lying, mocking friends.”

“Are we fair to the admiral?  He has set his heart on this thing.”

“And shall we spoil his pleasure?  Let him find it out later.”

“Do you know Corsica?”

“As the palm of my hand.”

“But the women?”

“They will never be in the danger zone.  No blood will be spilled, unless it be mine.  He has no love for me, and I am his only friend, save one.”

“Suppose this persecution of Germany’s was only a blind?”

“My admiration for you grows, Mr. Fitzgerald.  But I have dug too deeply into that end of it not to be certain that Germany has tossed this bombshell into France without holding a string to it.  Did you know that Breitmann had once been hit by a spent bullet?  Here,” pointing to the side of his head.  “He is always conscious of what he does but not of the force that makes him do it.  Do you understand me?  He is living in a dream, and I must wake him.”

The adventurers were now ready to disembark.  They took nothing but rugs and hand-bags, for there would be no preening of fine feathers on hotel verandas.  With the exception of Hildegarde all were eager and excited.  Her breast was heavy with forebodings.  Who and what was this man Ferraud?  One thing she knew; he was a menace to the man she loved, aye, with every throb of her heart and every thought of her mind.

The admiral was like a boy starting out upon his first fishing-excursion.  To him there existed nothing else in the world beyond a chest of money hidden somewhere in the pine forest of Aitone.  He talked and laughed, pinched Laura’s ears, shook Fitzgerald’s shoulder, prodded Coldfield, and fussed because the motor wasn’t sixty-horse power.

“Father,” Laura asked suddenly, “where is Mr. Breitmann?”

“Oh, I told him last night to go ashore early, if he would, and arrange for rooms at the Grand Hotel d’Ajaccio.  He knows all about the place.”

M. Ferraud turned an empty face toward Fitzgerald, who laughed.  The great-grandson of Napoleon, applying for hotel accommodations, as a gentleman’s gentleman, and within a few blocks of the house in which the self-same historic forebear was born!  It had its comic side.

“Are there any brigands?” inquired Mrs. Coldfield.  She was beginning to doubt this expedition.

“Brigands?  Plenty,” said the admiral, “but they are all hotel proprietors these times, those that aren’t conveniently buried.  From here we go to Carghese, where we spend the night, then on to Evisa, and another night.  The next morning we shall be on the ground.  Isn’t that the itinerary, Fitzgerald?”