“En avant!” she cried joyously, with a light stroke of her whip.

For half a mile they ran and drew in at the fork in the road.  Exhilaration was in the eyes of both of them.

“There’s nothing equal to it.  You feel alive.  And off there,” with a wave of the whip toward the sea, “off there lies our fortunes.  O happy day! to take part in a really truly adventure, without the assistance of a romancer!”

“I think you are one of the most charming women I have ever met,” he replied.

“Some women would object to the modification, but I rather like it.”

“I withdraw the modification.”  The smile on his lips was not reflected in his eyes.

The antithesis of the one expression to the other did not annoy her; rather she was sensitive to a tender exultance the recurrence of which, later in the day, subdued her:  for Breitmann at tea turned a few phrases of a similar character.  Fitzgerald was light-hearted and boyish, Breitmann was grave and dignified; but in the eyes of each there was a force she had encountered so seldom as to forget its being.  Breitmann, in his capacity of secretary, was not so often in her company as Fitzgerald; nevertheless she was subtly attracted toward him.  When he was of the mind he could invent a happy compliment with a felicity no less facile than Fitzgerald.  And the puzzling thing of it all was, both men she knew from their histories had never been ornaments at garden-parties where compliments are current coin.  She liked Fitzgerald, but she admired Breitmann, a differentiation which she had no inclination to resolve into first principles.  That Breitmann was a secretary for hire drew no barrier in her mind.  She had known many gentlemen of fine families who had served in like situations.  There were no social distinctions.  On the other hand, she never felt wholly comfortable with Breitmann.  There was not the least mistrust in this feeling.  It was rather because she instinctively felt that he was above his occupation.  To sum it up briefly, Breitmann was difficult to understand and Fitzgerald wasn’t.

Fitzgerald had an idea; boldly put, it was a grave suspicion.  Not once had he forgotten the man in the chimney.  Once the finger had pointed at Breitmann or some one with whom he was in understanding.  This had proved to be groundless.  But he kept turning over the incident and inspecting it from all sides.  There were others a-treasure hunting; persons unknown; and a man might easily become desperate in the pursuit of two-million francs, almost half a million of American money, more, for some of these coins would be rare.  He had thoroughly searched the ground outside the cellar-window, but the sea gravel held its secret with a tenacity as baffling as the mother-sea herself.  There was a new under-groom, or rather there had been.  He had left, and where he had gone no one knew.  Fitzgerald dismissed the thought of him; at the most he could have been but an accomplice, one to unlock the cellar-window.