“Orders, from whom?” asked Dick abruptly. “After breakfast you will know. I have one letter for you in my pocket.” With characteristic philosophy Dick accepted the situation. The very mention of breakfast gave a keener edge to an already sharply whetted appetite. Pierre departed and presently returned with a superb sirloin steak sizzling on a hot platter. Under his arm was tucked a bottle of wine. As he set down the latter, Dick noted that it was dusty and cobwebby, as if it had emerged from some ancient cellar. “Zis is not ze vintage of California,” remarked Pierre, as he drew the cork. “It is rare old Burgundy—all ze way from my beloved France.” “La belle France,” murmured Dick. “I spent a year there, Pierre, most of the time in Paris.” “Ah, monsieur knows France and Paris,” exclaimed the old man in great delight. “Zen you speak French, too?” “Un peu,” laughed Dick. “Mais je fais beaucoup de fautes, mon ami.” “Non, non, monsieur,” cried Pierre, breaking into voluble French. “Your accent is perfect—it is delightful to hear my native language again. We shall be great friends, Mr. Willoughby. Already I am your devoted servant.” He bowed deferentially, as he held Dick’s chair ready for him to be seated. “You will breakfast with me, Pierre?” asked Dick, still in his best French. “No, no. I wait on monsieur. I shall breakfast in good time.” Pierre was not to be persuaded to take a place at the table, so Dick sat down in solitary state and was served in lordly fashion. With the demi-tasse of black coffee at the close of the meal came a box of cigars—cigars fit for a prince, as Dick knew from the first fragrant whiff. The table was now cleared and Pierre ready to withdraw. He had taken a letter from his pocket and was holding it in his hand. But Dick, warmed and fed and supremely contented, was watching the ascending rings of tobacco smoke. “Do you know, Pierre,” he said between complacent puffs, “that I was one of the bunch that helped to get you out of San Quentin?” He had lapsed into English. “Oh, yes, I know,” replied Pierre, also dropping his French. “Ze five men who made up ze purse—I am very grateful to you all.” “Then what about the hidden treasure?” “Ah, I was to show ze hidden treasure. But one great change come about. I made one big mistake.” “Then the story of all this gold was a frame-up, was it?” laughed Willoughby. “No, no,” protested Pierre earnestly. “Ze cave—you are here in ze cave, although you do not know ze secret hiding place. Ze treasure, it is here, too. But I can no longer show ze gold, for ze man to whom it all belong he is not dead—he is alive.” “Whom do you mean?” “Don Manuel de Valencia—him you call ze White Wolf.” “Great guns! So he has appeared again. The newspaper stories were all wrong?”