"I'm safe enough, Jack, you can't set fire to ashes, and that's about all I amount to." Cathewe got into his pajamas and sat upon the bed. "Jack, I thought I knew something about this fellow Breitmann; but it seems I've something to learn." The younger man said nothing. "Was that yarn of Ferraud's fact or tommy-rot?" "Fact." "The great-grandson of Napoleon! Here! Nothing will ever surprise me again. But why didn't he lay the matter before Killigrew, like a man?" Fitzgerald patted and poked the wool-filled pillow, but without success. It remained as hard and as uninviting as ever. "I've thought it over, Arthur. I'd have done the same as Breitmann," as if reluctant to give his due to the missing man. "But why didn't this butterfly man tell the admiral all?" "He had excellent reasons. He's a secret agent, and has the idea that Breitmann wants to go into France and make an emperor of himself." "Do men dream of such things to-day, let alone try to enact them?" incredulously. "Breitmann's an example." "Are you taking his part?" "No, damn him! May I ask you a pertinent question?" "Yes." "Did he know Miss von Mitter very well in Munich?" "He did." "Was he quite square?" "I am beginning to believe that he was something between a cad and a scoundrel." "Did you know that among her forebears on her mother's side was the Abbe Fanu, who left among other things the diagram of the chimney?" "So that was it?" Cathewe's jaws hardened. Fitzgerald understood. Poor old Cathewe! "Most women are fools!" said Cathewe, as if reading his friend's thought. "Pick out all the brutes in history; they were always better loved than decent men. Why? God knows! Well, good night;" and Cathewe blew out his candle. So did Fitzgerald; but it was long before he fell asleep. He was straining his ears for the sound of a carriage coming down from Evisa. But none came. CHAPTER XXIV THE PINES OF AITONE Before sun-up they were on the way again. They circled through magnificent gorges now, of deep red and salmon tinted granite, storm-worn, strangely hollowed out, as if some Titan's hand had been at work; and always the sudden disappearance and reappearance of the blue Mediterranean. The two young women rode in the same carriage. Occasionally the men got down out of theirs and walked on either side of them. Whenever an abrupt turn showed forward, Fitzgerald put his hand in his pocket. From whichever way it came, he, at least, was not going to be found unprepared. Sometimes, when he heard M. Ferraud's laughter drift back from the admiral's carriage, he longed to throttle the aggravating little man. Yet, his admiration of him was genuine. What a chap to have wandered round with, in the old days! He began to realize what Frenchmen must have been a hundred years gone. And the strongest point in his armor was his humanity; he wished no one ill. Gradually the weight on Fitzgerald's shoulders lightened. If M. Ferraud could laugh, why not he?