Again Breitmann said something lowly.  M. Ferraud would have liked to see his face.

“But what are you going to do with the other woman?”

Two women:  M. Ferraud saw the ripple widen and draw near.  One woman he could not understand, but two simplified everything.  The drivers and two women.

“The other?” said Breitmann.  “She is of no importance.”

M. Ferraud shook his head.

“Oh, well; this will be, your private affair.  Captain Grasset will arrive from Nice to-morrow night.  Two nights later we all should be on board and under way.  Do you know, we have been very clever.  Not a suspicion anywhere of what we are about.”

“Do you recollect M. Ferraud?” inquired Breitmann.

“That little fool of a butterfly-hunter?” the duke asked.

M. Ferraud smiled and gazed laughingly up at the grill.

“He is no fool,” abruptly.  “He is a secret agent, and not one move have we made that is unknown to him.”

“Impossible!”

M. Ferraud could not tell whether the consternation in Picard’s voice was real or assumed.  He chose to believe the latter.

“And why hasn’t he shown his hand?”

“He is waiting for us to show ours.  But don’t worry,” went on Breitmann.  “I have arranged to suppress him neatly.”

And the possible victim murmured:  “I wonder how?”

“Then we must not meet again until you return; and then only at the little house in the Rue St. Charles.”

“Agreed.  Now I must be off.”

“Good luck!”

M. Ferraud heard the stir of a single chair and knew that the great-grandson was leaving.  The wall might have been transparent, so sure was he of the smile upon Picard’s face, a sinister speculating smile.  But his imagination did not pursue Breitmann, whose lips also wore a smile, one of irony and bitterness.  Neither did he hear Picard murmur “Dupe!” nor Breitmann mutter “Fools!”

When Breitmann saw Hildegarde in the hotel gardens he did not avoid her but stopped by her chair.  She rose.  She had been waiting all day for this moment.  She must speak out or suffocate with anxiety.

“Karl, what are you going to do?”

“Nothing,” unsmilingly.

“You will let the admiral find and keep this money which is yours?”

Breitmann shrugged.

“You are killing me with suspense!”

“Nonsense!” briskly.

“You are contemplating violence of some order.  I know it, I feel it!”

“Not so loud!” impatiently.

“You are!” she repeated, crushing her hands together.

“Well, all there remains to do is to tell the admiral.  He will, perhaps, divide with me.”

“How can you be so cruel to me?  It is your safety; that is all I wish to be assured of.  Oh, I am pitifully weak!  I should despise you.  Take this chest of money; it is yours.  Go to England, to America, and be happy.”