“But the newspapers?”

“None of them will employ me.”

“In New York, with your credentials?”

“Even so.”

“I don’t quite understand.”

“It would take too long to explain.”

“I can give you some letters.”

“Thank you.  It would be useless.  Secretly and subterraneously, I have had the bottom knocked out from under my feet.  Why, God knows!  But no more of that.  Some day I will give you my version.”

The little man smiled over his butterfly, took out a wallet, something on the pattern of a fisherman’s, and put the new-found specimen into one of the mica compartments, in which other dead butterflies of variant beauty reposed.

“So I become a private secretary, till the time offers something better.”  Breitmann stared at the sea.

“I am sorry.  I wish I could help you.  Better let me try.”  Fitzgerald stirred his coffee.  “You are convinced that there is some cabal working against you in the newspaper business?  That seems strange.  Some of them must have heard of your work—­London, Paris, Berlin.  Have you tried them all?”

“Yes.  Nothing for me, but promises as thick as yonder sands.”

The little man rose, and walked out of the room, smiling.

“Splendid!” he murmured.  “What a specimen to add to my collection!”

“Do you know what your duties will be?” Fitzgerald inquired.

“They will consist of replying to begging letters from the needy and deserving, from crazy inventors, and ministers.  In the meantime, I am to do translating, together with indexing a vast library devoted to pirates.  Droll, isn’t it?” Breitmann laughed, but this time without bitterness.

“It is a harmless hobby,” rather resenting Breitmann’s tone.

“More than that,” quickly; “it is philanthropic, since it will employ me for some length of time.”

“When do they expect you?”

“At half-after ten.”

“We’ll go up together, then.  Did you see the admiral’s daughter?”

“A daughter?  Has he one?” Breitmann accepted this news with an expression of disfavor.

“Yes; and charming, I can tell you.  It’s all very odd.  In Paris that night, they both sat at the next table.”

“Why did you not speak to them?”

“Didn’t know who they were.  The admiral was one of my father’s boyhood friends, and I did not meet them till very recently;” which was all true enough.  For some unaccountable reason, Fitzgerald found that he was on guard.  “I have ordered an open carriage.  If you have any trunks, I can take them up for you.”

“It will be good of you.”