And what she did not know of naval warfare her father did.  They were very companionable.  There was never any jealousy on the part of the admiral.  Indeed, he was always grateful when some young man evinced a deep regard for his daughter.  He would have her always, married or unmarried.  He was rich enough, and the son-in-law should live with him.  He was so assured of her good judgment, he knew that whenever this son-in-law came along, there would be another man in the family.  He had long ceased to bother his head about the flylike buzzing of fortune hunters.  He had been father and mother and brother to the child, and with wisdom.

She smiled at her father, gave her hand to Fitzgerald, who found it warm and moist from the ride, and glanced inquiringly at Breitmann.

“My dear,” said her father, “this is Mr. Breitmann, my new secretary.”

That gentleman bowed stiffly, and the scars faded somewhat when he observed that her hand was extended in welcome.  This unconventionality rather confused him, and as he took the hand he almost kissed it.  She understood the innocence of the gesture, and saved him from embarrassment by withdrawing the hand casually.

“I hope you will like it here,” was the pleasant wish.

“Thank you, I shall.”

“You are German?” quickly.

“I was born in Bavaria, Miss Killigrew.”

“The name should have told me.”  She excused herself.

“Oho!” thought Fitzgerald, with malicious exultancy.  “If she doesn’t interfere with your work!”

But with introspection, this exultancy grew suddenly dim.  How about himself?  Yes.  Here was a question that would bear some close inspection.  Was it really the wish to capture a supposable burglar?  He made short work of this analysis.  He never lied to others—­not even in his work, which every one knows is endowed with special licenses in regard to truth—­nor did he ever play the futile, if soothing, game of lying to himself.  This girl was different from the ordinary run of girls; she might become dangerous.  He determined then and there not to prolong his visit more than three or four days; just to satisfy her that there was no ghost in the chimney.  Then he would return to New York.  He had no more right than Breitmann to fall in love with the daughter of a millionaire.  Loving her was not impossible, but leaving at an early day would go toward lessening the probability.  He was not afraid of Breitmann; he was foreigner enough to accept at once his place, and to appreciate that he and this girl stood at the two ends of the world.

And Breitmann’s mind, which had, up to this time, been deep and unruffled as a pool, became strangely disturbed.

The time moved on to luncheon.  Breitmann took the part of listener, and spoke only when addressed.

“I must tell you, Mr. Breitmann,” said Laura, “that a ghost has returned to us.”