“Guests?” murmured Fitzgerald, unconsciously poaching on Breitmann’s thought.

“Yes.  But they shall know nothing till we land in Corsica.  And in a day or two this fellow would have laid hands on these things and we’d never been any the wiser.”

“And may we not expect more of him?” said Breitmann.

“Small good it will do him.”

“Corsica,” repeated the girl dreamily.

“Ay, Napoleon.  The Corsican Brothers’ daggers and vendetta, the restless island!  It is full of interest.  I have been there.”  Breitmann smiled pleasantly at the girl, but his thought was unsmiling.  Versed as he was in reading at a glance expression, whether it lay in the eyes, in the lips, or the hands, he realized with chagrin that he had made a misstep somewhere.  For some reason he would have given much to know, Fitzgerald was covertly watching him.

“You have been there, too, have you not, Mr. Fitzgerald?” asked Laura.

“Oh, yes; but never north of Ajaccio.”

“Laura, what a finishing touch this will give to my book.”  For the admiral was compiling a volume of treasures found, lost and still being hunted.  “All I can say is, that I am really sorry that the money wasn’t used for the purpose intended.”

“I do not agree there,” said Fitzgerald.

“And why not?” asked Breitmann.

“France is better off as she is.  She has had all the empires and monarchies she cares for.  Wonderful country!  See how she has lived in spite of them all.  There will never be another kingdom in France, at least not in our generation.  There’s a Napoleon in Belgium and a Bourbon in England; the one drills mediocre soldiers and the other shoots grouse.  They will never go any further.”

The secretary spread his fingers and shrugged.  “If there was only a direct descendant of Napoleon!”

“Well, there isn’t,” retorted Fitzgerald, dismissing the subject into limbo.  “And much good it would do if there was.”

“This treasure would rightly be his,” insisted Breitmann.

“It was put together to bring Napoleon back.  There is no Napoleon to bring back.”

“In other words, the money belongs to the finder?”

“Exactly.”

“Findings is keepings,” the admiral determined.  “That’s Captain Flanagan’s rule.”

The girl could bring together no reasons for the mind inclining to the thought that between the two young men there had risen an antagonism of some sort, nothing serious but still armed with spikes of light in the eyes and a semi-truculent angle to the chin.  Fitzgerald was also aware of this apparency, and it annoyed him.  Still, sometimes instinct guides more surely than logic.  After all, he and Breitmann were only casual acquaintances.  There had never been any real basis for friendship; and the possibility of this had been rendered nil by the telegram.  One can not make a friend of a man who has lied gratuitously.