In the little auberge, dignified but not improved by the name of Hotel de France, there was room only for the two women and the older men.  Fitzgerald and Cathewe had to bunk the best they could in a tenement at the upper end of the town; two cots in a single room, carpetless and ovenlike for the heat.

Cathewe opened his rug-bag and spread out a rug in front of his cot, for he wasn’t fond at any time of dirty, bare boards under his feet.  He began to undress, silently, puffing his pipe as one unconscious of the deed.  Cathewe looked old.  Fitzgerald hadn’t noticed the change before; but it certainly was a fact that his face was thinner than when they put out to sea.  Cathewe, his pipe still between his teeth, absently drew his shirt over his head.  The pipe fell to the rug and he stamped out the coals, grumbling.

“You’ll set yourself afire one of these fine days,” laughed Fitzgerald from his side of the room.

“I’m safe enough, Jack, you can’t set fire to ashes, and that’s about all I amount to.”  Cathewe got into his pajamas and sat upon the bed.  “Jack, I thought I knew something about this fellow Breitmann; but it seems I’ve something to learn.”

The younger man said nothing.

“Was that yarn of Ferraud’s fact or tommy-rot?”

“Fact.”

“The great-grandson of Napoleon!  Here!  Nothing will ever surprise me again.  But why didn’t he lay the matter before Killigrew, like a man?”

Fitzgerald patted and poked the wool-filled pillow, but without success.  It remained as hard and as uninviting as ever.  “I’ve thought it over, Arthur.  I’d have done the same as Breitmann,” as if reluctant to give his due to the missing man.

“But why didn’t this butterfly man tell the admiral all?”

“He had excellent reasons.  He’s a secret agent, and has the idea that Breitmann wants to go into France and make an emperor of himself.”

“Do men dream of such things to-day, let alone try to enact them?” incredulously.

“Breitmann’s an example.”

“Are you taking his part?”

“No, damn him!  May I ask you a pertinent question?”

“Yes.”

“Did he know Miss von Mitter very well in Munich?”

“He did.”

“Was he quite square?”

“I am beginning to believe that he was something between a cad and a scoundrel.”

“Did you know that among her forebears on her mother’s side was the Abbe Fanu, who left among other things the diagram of the chimney?”

“So that was it?” Cathewe’s jaws hardened.

Fitzgerald understood.  Poor old Cathewe!

“Most women are fools!” said Cathewe, as if reading his friend’s thought.  “Pick out all the brutes in history; they were always better loved than decent men.  Why?  God knows!  Well, good night;” and Cathewe blew out his candle.

So did Fitzgerald; but it was long before he fell asleep.  He was straining his ears for the sound of a carriage coming down from Evisa.  But none came.