It would be rather graceless to say that after drinking the cocktail Fitzgerald resumed his aforetime rosal lenses.  He was naturally at heart an optimist, as are all men of action.  And so the admiral, who had begun to look upon him with puzzled commiseration, came to the conclusion that the young man’s liver had resumed its normal functions.  An old woman would have diagnosed the case as one of heart (as Mrs. Coldfield secretly and readily and happily did); but an old fellow like the admiral generally compromises on the liver.

When one has journeyed for days on the unquiet sea, a touch of land underfoot renews, Antaeus-wise, one’s strength and mental activity; so a festive spirit presided at the dinner table.  The admiral determined to vault the enforced repression of his secret.  Inasmuch as it must be told, the present seemed a propitious moment.  He signed for the attendants to leave the salon, and then rapped on the table for silence.  He obtained it easily enough.

“My friends,” he began, “where do you think this boat is really going?”

“Marseilles,” answered Coldfield.

“Where else?” cried M. Ferraud, as if diversion from that course was something of an improbability.

“Corsica.  We can leave you at Marseilles, Mr. Ferraud, if you wish; but I advise you to remain with us.  It will be something to tell in your old age.”

Cathewe glanced across to Fitzgerald, as if to ask:  “Do you know anything about this?” Fitzgerald, catching the sense of this mute inquiry, nodded affirmatively.

“Corsica is a beautiful place,” said Hildegarde.  “I spent a spring in Ajaccio.”

“Well, that is our port,” confessed the admiral, laying his precious documents on the table.  “The fact is, we are going to dig up a treasure,” with a flourish.

Laughter and incredulous exclamations followed this statement.

“Pirates?” cried Coldfield, with a good-natured jeer.  He had cruised with the admiral before.  “Where’s the cutlass and jolly-roger?  Yo-ho! and a bottle o’ rum!”

“Yes.  And where’s the other ship following at our heels, as they always do in treasure hunts, the rival pirates who will cut our throats when we have dug up the treasure?”—­from Cathewe.

“Treasures!” mumbled M. Ferraud from behind his pineapple.  Carefully he avoided Fitzgerald’s gaze, but he noted the expression on Breitmann’s face.  It was not pleasant.

“Just a moment,” the admiral requested patiently.  “I know it smells fishy.  Laura, go ahead and read the documents to the unbelieving giaours.  Mr. Fitzgerald knows and so does Mr. Breitmann.”

“Tell us about it, Laura.  No joking, now,” said Coldfield, surrendering his incredulity with some hesitance.  “And if the treasure involves no fighting or diplomatic tangle, count me in.  Think of it, Jane,” turning to his wife; “two old church-goers like you and me, a-going after a pirate’s treasure!  Doesn’t it make you laugh?”