The morning found her still at her post.  Breitmann awoke early, and appeared to take little interest in his surroundings.

“Why do you waste your time?” his voice was colorless.

“I am not wasting my time, Karl.”

His head rolled slowly over on the pillow till he could see outside.  Only two or three fishing-boats were visible.

“When will the yacht sail?”

Always that question!  “Go to sleep.  I will wake you when I see it.”

“I’ve been a scoundrel, Hildegarde;” and he closed his eyes.

Where would she go when he left this room?  For the future was always rising up with this question.  What would she do, how would she live?  She too shut her eyes.

The door opened.  The visitor was M. Ferraud.  He touched his lips with a finger and stole toward the bed.

“Better?”

She nodded.

“Are you not dead for sleep?”

“It does not matter.”

Breitmann’s eyes opened, for his brain was wide awake.  “Ferraud?”

“Yes.  They wished me to say good-by for them.”

“To me?” incredulously.

“They have none but good wishes.”

“She will never know?”

“Not unless Mr. Fitzgerald tells her.”

“Hildegarde, I had planned her abduction.  Don’t misunderstand.  I have sunk low indeed, but not so low as that.  I wanted to harry them.  They would have left me free.  She was to be a pawn.  I shouldn’t have hurt her.”

“You do not care to return to Germany?”

“Nor to France, M. Ferraud.”

“There’s a wide world outside.  You will find room enough,” diffidently.

“An outlaw?”

“Of a kind.”

“Be easy.  I haven’t even the wish to be buried there.  There is more to the story, more than you know.  My name is Herman Stueler . . . if I live.  There is not a drop of French blood in my veins.  Breitmann died on the field in the Soudan, and I took his papers.”  His eyes burned into Ferraud’s.

“Perhaps that would be the best way,” replied M. Ferraud pensively.

“What shall I do with the money?  It is under the bed.”

“Keep it.  No one will contest your right to it, Herman Stueler; and besides, your French, fluent as it is, still possesses the Teutonic burr.  Yes, Herman Stueler; very good, indeed.”

Hildegarde eyed them in wonder.  Were they both mad?

“Will you be sure always to remember?” said M. Ferraud to the bewildered woman.  “Herman Stueler; Karl Breitmann, who was the great grandson of Napoleon, died of a gunshot in Africa.  If you will always remember that, why even Paris will be possible some day.”

Hildegarde was beginning to understand.  She was coming to bless this little man.

“I do not believe that the money under the bed is safe there.  I shall, if you wish, make arrangements with the local agents of the Credit Legonnais to take over the sum, without question, and to issue you two drafts, one on London and the other on New York, or in two letters of credit.  Two millions; it is a big sum to let repose under one’s bed, anywhere, let alone Corsica, where the amount might purchase half the island.”