"Why don't you answer the woman?" "I don't know what she says." "Are you acting, or is it real?" Bertie only wished that he had been acting, and that his ignorance had not been real. At Mecklemburg House the idea of learning French had seemed to him absurd, an altogether frivolous waste of time. What would he not have given then--and still more, what would he not have given a little later on--to have made better use of his opportunities when he had them? Circumstances alter cases. The captain looked at him for a moment or two with his fierce black eyes; then he said something to the old woman which made her laugh. Not a pleasant laugh by any means, and it did not add to Bertie's sense of comfort that such a laugh was being laughed at him. "Sit up to the table!" The old woman had laid the table, and had then disappeared to fetch the food to put before her guests. Bertie sat up. The meal appeared. Not by any means a bad one--better, like the room itself, than might have been expected. When they had finished, and the old crone had cleared the things away, the captain stood up and lighted a cigar. "Now, my lad, you'd better tumble into bed. I've a strong belief in the virtue of early hours. There's nothing like sleep for boys, even for those with a turn for humour." Bertie had not himself a taste for early hours as a rule--it may be even questioned if the captain had--but he was ready enough for bed just then, and he had scarcely got between the sheets before he was asleep. But what surprised him was to see the captain prepare himself for bed as well. Bertie had one bed, the captain the other. The lights were put out; and at an unusually early hour silence reigned. Perhaps the journey had fatigued the man as much as the boy. It is beyond question that the captain was asleep almost as soon as Bertie was. But he did not sleep quite so long. While it was yet dark he got up, and, having lit a candle, looked at his watch. Then he dressed very quietly, making not the slightest noise. He took his revolver from underneath his pillow, and replaced it in the top pocket of his overcoat. He also took from underneath his pillow a leathern case. He opened it. It contained a necklace of wondrous beauty, formed of diamonds of uncommon brilliancy and size. His great black eyes sparkled at the precious stones, and the precious stones sparkled back at him. It was that necklace which had once belonged to the Countess of Ferndale, and which, according to Mr. Rosenheim, had cost more than twenty thousand pounds. The captain reclosed the leathern case, and put it in the same pocket which contained his revolver. Then, being fully dressed, even to his hat and boots, he crossed the room and looked at Bertie. The boy was fast asleep. "The young beggar's smiling again." The young beggar was; perhaps he was again dreaming of his mother.