“I am not a detective, Miss Killigrew,” he remarked, as she paused.

“No, but you seem to be a man of invention and of good spirit.  Will you help me?”

“In whatever way I can.”  His opinion at that moment perhaps agreed with that of her father.  Still, a test could be of no harm.  She was a charming young woman, and he was assured that beneath this present concern there was a lively, humorous disposition.  He had a month for idleness, and why not play detective for a change?  Then he recalled the trespasser in the park.  By George, she might be right!

“Come, then, and I will present you to my father.  His deafness is not so bad that one has to speak loudly.  To speak distinctly will be simplest.”

She thereupon conducted him into the library.  His quick glance, thrown here and there absorbingly, convinced him that there were at least five thousand volumes in the cases, a magnificent private collection, considering that the owner was not a lawyer, and that these books were not dry and musty precedents from the courts of appeals and supreme.  He was glad to see that some of his old friends were here, too, and that the shelves were not wholly given over to piracy.  What a hobby to follow!  What adventures all within thirty square feet!  And a shiver passed over his spine as he saw several tattered black flags hanging from the walls; the real articles, too, now faded to a rusty brown.  Over what smart and lively heeled brigs had they floated, these sinister jolly rogers?  For in a room like this they could not be other than genuine.  All his journalistic craving for stories awakened.

Behind a broad, flat, mahogany desk, with a green-shaded student lamp at his elbow, sat a bright-cheeked, white-haired man, writing.  Fitzgerald instantly recognized him.  Abruptly his gaze returned to the girl.  Yes, now he knew.  It was stupid of him not to have remembered at once.  Why, it was she who had given the bunch of violets that day to the old veteran in Napoleon’s tomb.  To have remembered the father and to have forgotten the daughter!

“I was wondering where I had seen you,” he said lowly.

“Where was that?”

“In Napoleon’s tomb, nearly a year ago.  You gave an old French soldier a bouquet of violets.  I was there.”

“Were you?” As a matter of fact his face was absolutely new to her.  “I am not very good at recalling faces.  And in traveling one sees so many.”

“That is true.”  Queer sort of girl, not to show just a little more interest.  The moment was not ordinary by any means.  He was disappointed.

“Father!” she called, in a clear, sweet voice, for the admiral had not heard them enter.

At the call he raised his head and took off his Mandarin spectacles.  Like all sailors, he never had any trouble in seeing distances clearly; the difficulty lay in books, letters, and small type.

“What is it, Laura?”