Ten minutes later Carlo came in, hat in hand, curious. "Carlo," began the Frenchman, leaning on his elbows, his sharp eyes boring into the mild brown ones of the Corsican, "we shall not return to Carghese to-morrow but the day after." "Not return to-morrow?" cried Carlo dismayed. "Ah, but the _signore_ does not understand. We are engaged day after to-morrow to carry a party to Bonifacio. We have promised. We must return to-morrow." Fitzgerald saw the drift and bent forward. The admiral fumed because his Italian was an indifferent article. "But," pursued M. Ferraud, "we will pay you twenty francs the day, just the same." "We are promised." Carlo shrugged and spread his hands, but the glitter in his questioner's eyes disquieted him. "What's this about?" growled the admiral. "The man says he must take us back to-morrow, or leave us, as he has promised to return to Ajaccio to carry a party to Bonifacio," M. Ferraud explained. "Then, if we don't go to-morrow it means a week in this forsaken hole?" "It is possible." M. Ferraud turned to Carlo once more. "We will make it fifty francs per day." "Impossible, _signore_!" "Then you will return to-morrow without us." Carlo's face hardened. "But--" "Come outside with me," said M. Ferraud in a tone which brooked no further argument. The two stepped out into the hall, and when the Frenchman came back his face was animated. "Mr. Ferraud," said the admiral icily, "my daughter has informed me what passed between you. I must say that you have taken a deal upon yourself." "Mr. Ferraud is right," put in Fitzgerald. "You, too?" "Yes. I think the time has come, for Mr. Ferraud to offer full explanations." The butterfly-hunter resumed his chair. "They will remain or carry us on to Corte. From there we can take the train back to Ajaccio, saving a day and a half. Admiral, I have a confession to make. It will surprise you, and I offer you my apologies at once." He paused. He loved moments like this, when he could resort to the dramatic in perfect security. "_I_ was the man in the chimney." The admiral gasped. Laura dropped her hands to the table. Cathewe sat back stiffly. Coldfield stared. Hildegarde shaded her face with the newspaper through which she had been idly glancing. "Patience!" as the admiral made as though to press back his chair. "Mr. Fitzgerald knew from the beginning. Is that not true?" "It is, Mr. Ferraud. Go on."