And then, for a time, they smoked like Turks, in silence.

“By George, it’s a good joke; you and I trying to choke each other, while the real burglar makes off.”

“It has some droll sides.”

“And you all but broke my arm.”

Breitmann chuckled.  “You were making the same move.  I was quicker, that was all.”

Another pause.

“The admiral has seen some odd corners.  Think of seeing, at close range, the Japanese-Chinese naval fight!”

“He tells a story well.”

“And the daughter is a thoroughbred.”

“Yes,” non-committally.

“By the way, I’m going to the Pole in June or August.”

“The Italian expedition?”

“Yes.”

“That ought to make fine copy.  You will not mind if I turn in?  A bit sleepy.”

“Not at all.  Shall we tell the admiral?”

“The first thing in the morning.  Good night.”

Fitzgerald finished his cigar, and went to bed also.  “Interesting old place,” wadding a pillow under his ear.  “More interesting to-morrow.”

Some time earlier, the individual who was the cause of this nocturnal exploit hurried down the hill, nursing a pair of skinned palms, and laughing gently to himself.

“Checkmate!  I shall try the other way.”

On the morrow, Fitzgerald recounted the adventure in a semi-humorous fashion, making a brisk melodrama out of it, to the quiet amusement of his small audience.

“I shall send for the mason this morning,” said the admiral.  “I’ve been dreaming of The Black Cat and all sorts of horrible things.  I hate like sixty to spoil the old chimney, but we can’t have this going on.  We’ll have it down at once.  A fire these days is only a nice touch to the mahogany.”

“But you must tell him to put back every brick in its place,” said Laura.  “I could not bear to have anything happen to that chimney.  All the same, I am glad the matter is going to be cleared up.  It has been nerve-racking; and I have been all alone, waiting for I know not what.”

“You haven’t been afraid?” said Fitzgerald.

“I’m not sure that I haven’t.”  She sighed.

“Nonsense!” cried the admiral.

“I am not afraid of anything I can see; but I do not like the dark; I do not like mysteries.”

“You’re the bravest girl I know, Laura,” her father declared.  “Now, Mr. Breitmann, if you don’t mind.”

“Shall we begin at once, sir?”

“You will copy some of my notes, to begin with.  Any time you’re in doubt over a word, speak to me.  There will not be much outside of manuscript work.  Most of my mail is sorted at my bankers, and only important letters forwarded.  There may be a social note occasionally.  Do you read and write English as well as you speak it?”

“Oh, yes.”

Laura invited Fitzgerald to the tennis court.

“In these shoes?” he protested.