"It's the deuce of a job to get you into a corner," Fitzgerald declared. "But I have your promise, and you should recollect that I know things which might interest Mr. Breitmann." "_Croyez-vous qu'il pleuve? Il fait bien du vent_," adjusting his spectacles and viewing the clear sky and the serene bosom of the Mediterranean. Then M. Ferraud turned round with: "Ah, Mr. Fitzgerald, this man Breitmann is what you call 'poor devil,' is it not? At dinner to-night I shall tell a story, at once marvelous past belief and pathetic. I shall tell this story against my best convictions because I wish him no harm, because I should like to save him from black ruin. But, attend me; my efforts shall be as wind blowing upon stone; and I shall not save him. An alienist would tell you better than I can. Listen. You have watched him, have you not? To you he seems like any other man? Yes? Keen-witted, gifted, a bit of a musician, a good deal of a scholar? Well, had I found that paper first, there would have been no treasure hunt. I should have torn it into one thousand pieces; I should have saved him in spite of himself and have done my duty also. He is mad, mad as a whirlwind, as a tempest, as a fire, as a sandstorm." "About what?" "To-night, to-night!" And the wiry little man released himself and bustled away to his chair where he became buried in rugs and magazines. CHAPTER XX AN OLD SCANDAL "Corsica to-morrow," said the admiral. "Napoleon," said Laura. "Romance," said Cathewe. "Treasures," said M. Ferraud. Hildegarde felt uneasy. Breitmann toyed with the bread crumbs. He was inattentive besides. "Napoleon. There is an old scandal," mused M. Ferraud. "I don't think that any of you have heard it." "That will interest me," Fitzgerald cried. "Tell it." M. Ferraud cleared his throat with a sharp ahem and proceeded to burnish his crystals. Specks and motes were ever adhering to them. He held them up to the light and pretended to look through them: he saw nothing but the secretary's abstraction. "We were talking about treasures the other night," began the Frenchman, "and I came near telling it then. It is a story of Napoleon." "Never a better moment to tell it," said the admiral, rubbing his hands in pleasurable anticipation. "I say to you at once that the tale is known to few, and has never had any publicity, and must never have any. Remember that, if you please, Mr. Fitzgerald, and you also, Mr. Breitmann." "I beg your pardon," said Breitmann. "I was not listening." M. Ferraud repeated his request clearly. "I am no longer a newspaper writer," Breitmann affirmed, clearing the fog out of his head. "A story about Napoleon; will it be true?" "Every word of it." M. Ferraud folded his arms and sat back. During the pause Hildegarde shivered. Something made her desire madly to thrust a hand out and cover M. Ferraud's mouth.