They saw Evisa at sunset, one of the seven glories of the earth.  The little village rests on the side of a mountain, nearly three-thousand feet above the sea, the sea itself lying miles away to the west, V-shaped between two enormous shafts of burning granite.  Even the admiral forgot his smoldering wrath.

The hotel was neat and cool, and all the cook had to do was to furnish dishes and hot water for tea.  There was very little jesting, and what there was of it fell to the lot of Coldfield and the Frenchman.  The spirit in them all was tense.  Given his way, the admiral would have gone out that very night with lanterns.

“Folly!  To find a given point in an unknown forest at night; impossible!  Am I not right, Mr. Cathewe?  Of course.  Breitmann’s man knew Aitone from his youth.  Suppose,” continued M. Ferraud, “that we spend two days here?”

“What?  Give him all the leeway?” The admiral was amazed that M. Ferraud could suggest such a stupidity.  “No.  In the morning we make the search.  If there’s nothing there we’ll return at once.”

M. Ferraud spoke to the young woman who waited on the table.  “Please find Carlo, the driver, and bring him here.”

Ten minutes later Carlo came in, hat in hand, curious.

“Carlo,” began the Frenchman, leaning on his elbows, his sharp eyes boring into the mild brown ones of the Corsican, “we shall not return to Carghese to-morrow but the day after.”

“Not return to-morrow?” cried Carlo dismayed.

“Ah, but the signore does not understand.  We are engaged day after to-morrow to carry a party to Bonifacio.  We have promised.  We must return to-morrow.”

Fitzgerald saw the drift and bent forward.  The admiral fumed because his Italian was an indifferent article.

“But,” pursued M. Ferraud, “we will pay you twenty francs the day, just the same.”

“We are promised.”  Carlo shrugged and spread his hands, but the glitter in his questioner’s eyes disquieted him.

“What’s this about?” growled the admiral.

“The man says he must take us back to-morrow, or leave us, as he has promised to return to Ajaccio to carry a party to Bonifacio,” M. Ferraud explained.

“Then, if we don’t go to-morrow it means a week in this forsaken hole?”

“It is possible.”  M. Ferraud turned to Carlo once more.  “We will make it fifty francs per day.”

“Impossible, signore!”

“Then you will return to-morrow without us.”

Carlo’s face hardened.  “But—­”

“Come outside with me,” said M. Ferraud in a tone which brooked no further argument.

The two stepped out into the hall, and when the Frenchman came back his face was animated.

“Mr. Ferraud,” said the admiral icily, “my daughter has informed me what passed between you.  I must say that you have taken a deal upon yourself.”

“Mr. Ferraud is right,” put in Fitzgerald.