“Why not wait a little while?” Fitzgerald ventured.  “With Breitmann and me in the house, we might trap the man.”

“A good scheme!”

“He comes from the outside, somewhere; from the cellar, probably.  Let us try the cellar.”  Breitmann urged this with a gesture of his hands.

“There’ll be sport,” said Fitzgerald.

The coffee was cold in the little cups when they returned to it.  The cellar, as far as any one could learn, was free from any signs of recent invasion.  It was puzzling.

“And the servants?” Breitmann intimated.

“They have been in the family for years.”  The admiral shook his head convincedly.  “I ask your pardon, my dear.  My ears are not so keen as might be.  I’m an old blockhead to think that you were having an attack of ghosts.  But we’ll solve the riddle shortly, and then we shan’t have any trouble with our alarm bells,” with a significant glance at Fitzgerald.  “Well, Mr. Breitmann, suppose we take a look at the work?  Laura, you show Mr. Fitzgerald the gardens.  The view from the terrace is excellent.”

Fine weather.  The orchard was pink with apple blossoms, giving the far end of the park a tint not unlike Sicilian almonds in bloom.  And the intermittent breeze, as it waned or strengthened, carried delicate perfumes to and fro.  Yon was the sea, with well-defined horizon, and down below were the few smacks and the white yacht Laura, formally bowing to one another, or tossing their noses impudently; and, far away, was the following trail of brown smoke from some ship which had dropped down the horizon.

Fitzgerald, stood silent, musing, at the girl’s side.  He was fond of vistas.  There was rest in them, a peace not to be found even in the twilight caverns of cathedrals; wind blowing over waters, the flutter of leaves, the bend in the grasses.  To dwell in a haven like this.  No care, no worry, no bother of grubbing about in one’s pockets for overlooked coins, no flush of excitement!  It is, after all, the homeless man who answers quickest the beckon of wanderlust.  It is only when he comes into the shelter of such a roof that he draws into his heart the bitter truth of his loneliness.

“You must think me an odd girl.”

“Pray why?”

“By the manner in which I brought you here.”

“On the contrary, you are one of the few women I ever met who know something about scoring a good joke.  Didn’t your friend, Mrs. Coldfield, know my mother; and wasn’t your father a great friend of my father’s?  As for being odd, what about me?  I believe I stood on the corner, and tried to sell plaster casts, just to win a foolish club wager.”

“Men can jest that way with impunity, but a woman may not.  Still, I really couldn’t help acting the way I did,” with a tinkle in her voice and a twinkle in her eyes.