"I shall proceed to allay it, somewhat. This will be no jest. Did you come armed?"
"Oh, indeed, no!" smiling.
She rather liked that. "I was wondering if you did not believe this to be some silly intrigue."
"I gave thought to but two things: that you were jesting, or that you were in need of a gentleman as well as a man of courage. Tell me, what is the danger, and why do you ask me if I am armed?" It occurred to him that her own charm and beauty might be the greatest danger he could possibly face. More and more grew the certainty that he had seen her somewhere in the past.
"Ah, if I only knew what the danger was. But that it exists I am positive. Within the past two weeks, on odd nights, there have been strange noises here and there about the house, especially in the chimney. My father, being slightly deaf, believes that these sounds are wholly imaginative on my part. This is the first spring in years we have resided here. It is really our summer home. I am not more than normally timorous. Some one we do not know enters the house at will. How or why I can't unravel. Nothing has ever disappeared, either money, jewels, or silver, though I have laid many traps. There is the huge fireplace in the library, and my room is above. I have heard a tapping, like some one hammering gently on stone. I have examined the bricks and so has my father, but neither of us has discovered anything. Three days ago I placed flour thinly on the flagstone before the fireplace. There were footprints in the morning—of rubber shoes. When I called in my father, the maid had unfortunately cleaned the stone without observing anything. So my father still holds that I am subject to dreams. His secretary, whom he had for three years, has left him. The butler's and servants' quarters are in the rear of the other wing. They have never been disturbed."
"I am not a detective, Miss Killigrew," he remarked, as she paused.
"No, but you seem to be a man of invention and of good spirit. Will you help me?"
"In whatever way I can." His opinion at that moment perhaps agreed with that of her father. Still, a test could be of no harm. She was a charming young woman, and he was assured that beneath this present concern there was a lively, humorous disposition. He had a month for idleness, and why not play detective for a change? Then he recalled the trespasser in the park. By George, she might be right!
"Come, then, and I will present you to my father. His deafness is not so bad that one has to speak loudly. To speak distinctly will be simplest."
She thereupon conducted him into the library. His quick glance, thrown here and there absorbingly, convinced him that there were at least five thousand volumes in the cases, a magnificent private collection, considering that the owner was not a lawyer, and that these books were not dry and musty precedents from the courts of appeals and supreme. He was glad to see that some of his old friends were here, too, and that the shelves were not wholly given over to piracy. What a hobby to follow! What adventures all within thirty square feet! And a shiver passed over his spine as he saw several tattered black flags hanging from the walls; the real articles, too, now faded to a rusty brown. Over what smart and lively heeled brigs had they floated, these sinister jolly rogers? For in a room like this they could not be other than genuine. All his journalistic craving for stories awakened.
Behind a broad, flat, mahogany desk, with a green-shaded student lamp at his elbow, sat a bright-cheeked, white-haired man, writing. Fitzgerald instantly recognized him. Abruptly his gaze returned to the girl. Yes, now he knew. It was stupid of him not to have remembered at once. Why, it was she who had given the bunch of violets that day to the old veteran in Napoleon's tomb. To have remembered the father and to have forgotten the daughter!
"I was wondering where I had seen you," he said lowly.
"Where was that?"
"In Napoleon's tomb, nearly a year ago. You gave an old French soldier a bouquet of violets. I was there."
"Were you?" As a matter of fact his face was absolutely new to her. "I am not very good at recalling faces. And in traveling one sees so many."
"That is true." Queer sort of girl, not to show just a little more interest. The moment was not ordinary by any means. He was disappointed.
"Father!" she called, in a clear, sweet voice, for the admiral had not heard them enter.
At the call he raised his head and took off his Mandarin spectacles. Like all sailors, he never had any trouble in seeing distances clearly; the difficulty lay in books, letters, and small type.
"What is it, Laura?"
"This is Mr. Fitzgerald, the new secretary," she answered blandly.
"Aha! Bring a chair over and sit down. What did you say the name is,
Laura?"
"Fitzgerald."
"Sit down, Mr. Fitzgerald," repeated the admiral cordially.
Fitzgerald desired but one thing; the privilege of laughter!
CHAPTER V
NO FALSE PRETENSES
A private secretary, and only one way out! If the girl had been kind enough to stand her ground with him he would not have cared so much. But there she was vanishing beyond the door. There was a suggestion of feline cruelty in thus abandoning him. He dared not call her back. What the devil should he say to the admiral? There was one thing he knew absolutely nothing about, and this was the duties of a private secretary to a retired admiral who had riches, a yacht, a hobby, and a beautiful, though impulsive daughter. His thought became irrelevant, as is frequent when one faces a crisis, humorous or tragic; here indeed was the coveted opportunity to study at close range the habits of a man who spent less than his income.
"Come, come; draw up your chair, Mr. Fitzgerald."
"I beg your pardon; I—that is, I was looking at those flags, sir," stuttered the self-made victim of circumstances.
"Oh, those? Good examples of their kind; early part of the nineteenth century. Picked them up one cruise in the Indies. That faded one belonged to Morgan, the bloodthirsty ruffian. I've always regretted that I wasn't born a hundred years ago. Think of bottling them up in a shallow channel and raking 'em fore and aft!" With a bang of his fist on the desk, setting the ink-wells rattling like old bones, "That would have been sport!"
The keen, blue, sailor's eye seemed to bore right through Fitzgerald, who thought the best thing he could do was to sit down at once, which he did. The ticket agent had said that the admiral was of a quiet pattern, but this start wasn't much like it. The fire in the blue eyes suddenly gave way to a twinkle, and the old man laughed.
"Did I frighten you, Mr. Fitzgerald?"
"Not exactly."
"Well, every secretary I've had has expected to see a red-nosed, swearing, peg-legged sailor; so I thought I'd soften the blow for you. Don't worry. Sailor?"
"Not in the technical sense," answered Fitzgerald, warming. "I know a stanchion from an anchor and a rope from a smoke-stack. But as for travel, I believe that I have crossed all the high and middle seas."
"Sounds good. Australia, East Indies, China, the Antilles, Gulf, and the South Atlantic?"
"Yes; round the Horn, too, and East Africa." Fitzgerald remembered his instructions and spoke clearly.
"Well, well; you are a find. In what capacity have you taken these voyages?"
Here was the young man's opportunity. This was a likeable old sea-dog, and he determined not to impose upon him another moment. Some men, for the sake of the adventure, would have left the truth to be found out later, to the disillusion of all concerned. The abrupt manner in which Miss Killigrew had abandoned him merited some revenge.
"Admiral, I'm afraid there has been a mistake, and before we go any further I'll be glad to explain. I'm not a private secretary and never have been one. I should be less familiar with the work than a Chinaman. I am a special writer for the magazines, and have been at odd times a war correspondent." And then he went on to describe the little comedy of the statuettes, and it was not without some charm in the telling.
Plainly the admiral was nonplussed. That girl; that minx, with her innocent eyes and placid face! He got up, and Fitzgerald awaited the explosion. His expectancy missed fire. The admiral exploded, but with laughter.
"I beg pardon, Mr. Fitzgerald, and I beg it again on my daughter's behalf. What would you do in my place?"
"Show me the door at once and have done with it."
"I'm hanged if I do! You shall have a toddy for your pains, and, by cracky, Laura shall mix it." He pushed the butler's bell. "Tell Miss Laura that I wish to see her at once."
"Very well, sir."
She appeared shortly. If Fitzgerald admired her beauty he yet more admired her perfect poise and unconcern. Many another woman would have evinced some embarrassment. Not she.
"Laura, what's the meaning of this hoax?" the admiral demanded sternly. "Mr. Fitzgerald tells me that he had no idea you were hiring him as my secretary."
"I am sure he hadn't the slightest." The look she sent Fitzgerald was full of approval. "He hadn't any idea at all save that I asked him to come here at eight this evening. And his confession proves that I haven't made any mistake."
"But what in thunder—"
"Father!"
"My dear, give me credit for resisting the desire to make the term stronger. Mr. Fitzgerald's joke, I take it, bothered no one. Yours has put him in a peculiar embarrassment. What does it mean? You went to the city to get me a first-class secretary."
"Mr. Fitzgerald has the making of one, I believe."
"But on your word I sent a capable man away half an hour gone. He could speak half a dozen languages."
"Mr. Fitzgerald is, perhaps, as efficient."
Fitzgerald's wonder grew and grew.
"But he doesn't want to be a secretary. He doesn't know anything about the work. And I haven't got the time to teach him, even if he wanted the place."
"Father," began the girl, the fun leaving her eyes and her lips becoming grave, "I do not like the noises at night. I have not suggested the police, because robbery is not the motive."
"Laura, that's all tommyrot. This is an old house, and the wood always creaks with a change of temperature. But this doesn't seem to touch Mr. Fitzgerald."
The girl shrugged.
"Well, I'm glad I told that German chap not to leave till he heard again from me. I'll hire him. He looks like a man who wouldn't let noises worry him. You will find your noises are entirely those of imagination."
"Have it that way," she agreed patiently.
"But here's Mr. Fitzgerald still," said the admiral pointedly.
"Not long ago you said to me that if ever I saw the son of David Fitzgerald to bring him home. Till yesterday I never saw him; only then because Mrs. Coldfield pointed him out and wondered what he was doing with a tray of statuettes around his neck. As I could not invite him to come home with me, I did the next best thing; I invited him to call on me. I was told that he was fond of adventures, so I gave the invitation as much color as I could. Do I stand pardoned?"
"Indeed you do!" cried Fitzgerald. So this was the Killigrew his father had known?
"David Fitzgerald, your father? That makes all the difference in the world." The admiral thrust out a hand. "Your father wasn't a good business man, nor was he in the navy, but he could draw charts of the Atlantic coast with his eyes shut. Laura, you get the whisky and sugar and hot water. You haven't brought me a secretary, but you have brought under my roof the son of an old friend."
She laughed. It was rich and free-toned laughter, good for any man to hear. As she went to prepare the toddy, the music echoed again through the hall.
"Sometimes I wake up in the morning with a new gray hair," sighed the admiral. "What would you do with a girl like that?"
"I'd hang on to her as long as I could," earnestly.
"I shall," grimly. "Your father and I were old friends. There wasn't a yacht on these waters that could show him her heels, not even my own. You don't mean to tell me you're no yachtsman! Why, it ought to be in the blood."
"Oh, I can handle small craft, but I don't know much about the engine-room. What time does the next train return to New York?"
"For you there'll be no train under a week. You're going to stay here, since you've been the victim of a hoax."
"Disabuse your mind there, sir. I don't know when I've enjoyed anything so thoroughly."
"But you'll stay? Oh, yes!" as Fitzgerald shook his head. "The secretary can do the work here while you and I can take care of the rats in the hold. Laura's just imagining things, but we'll humor her. If there's any trouble with the chimney, why, we'll get a bricklayer and pull it down."
"Miss Killigrew may have some real cause for alarm. I saw a man, or rather, I heard him, running, as I came up the road from the gates. I called to him, but he did not answer."
"Is that so? Wasn't the porter at the gates when you came in?"
"No. The footpath was free."
"This begins to look serious. If the porter isn't there the gate bell rings, I can open it myself by wire. I never bother about it at night, unless I am expecting some one. But in the daytime I can see from here whether or not I wish to open the gate. A man running in the park, eh? Little good it will do him. The house is a network of burglar alarms."
"Wires can be cut and quickly repaired."
"But this is no house to rob. All my valuables, excepting these books, are in New York. The average burglar isn't of a literary turn of mind. Still, if Laura has really heard something, all the more reason why you should make us a visit. Wait a moment. I've an idea." The admiral set the burglar alarm and tried it. The expression on his face was blank. "Am I getting deafer?"
"No bell rang," said Fitzgerald quickly.
"By cracky, if Laura is right! But not a word to her, mind. When she goes up-stairs we'll take a trip into the cellar and have a look at the main wire. You've got to stay; that's all there is about it. This is serious. I hadn't tested the wires in a week."
"Perhaps it's only a fuse."
"We can soon find out about that. Sh! Not a word to her!"
She entered with a tray and two steaming toddies, as graceful a being as Hebe before she spilled the precious drop. The two men could not keep their eyes off her, the one with loving possession, the other with admiration not wholly free from unrest. The daring manner in which she had lured him here would never be forgetable. And she had known him at the start? And that merry Mrs. Coldfield in the plot!
"I hope this will cheer you, father."
"It always does," replied the admiral, as he took the second glass. "I have asked Mr. Fitzgerald to spend a week with us."
"Thank you, father. It was thoughtful of you. If you had not asked him, the pleasure of doing so would have been mine. Mrs. Coldfield pointed you out to me as a most ungrateful fellow, because you never called on your father's or mother's friends any more, but preferred to gallivant round the world. You will stay? We are very unconventional here."
"It is all very good of you. I am rather a lonesome chap. The newspapers and magazines have spoiled me. There's never a moment so happy to me as when I am ordered to some strange country, thousands of miles away. It is in the blood. Thanks, very much; I shall be very happy to stay. My hand-bag, however, is at Swan's Hotel, and there's very little in it."
"A trifling matter to send to New York for what you need," said the admiral, mightily pleased to have a man to talk to who was not paid to reply. "I'll have William bring the cart round and take you down."
"No, no; I had much rather walk. I'll turn up some time in the morning, say luncheon, if that will be agreeable to you."
"As you please. Only, I should like to save you an unpleasant walk in the dark."
"I don't mind. A dark street in a country village this side of the
Atlantic holds little or no danger."
"I offered to build a first-class lighting plant if the town would agree to pay the running expenses; but the council threw it over. They want me to build a library. Not much! Hold on," as Fitzgerald was rising. "You are not going right away. I shan't permit that. Just a little visit first."
Fitzgerald resumed his chair.
"Have a cigar. Laura is used to it."
"But does Miss Killigrew like it?" laughing.
"Cigars, and pipes, and cigarettes," she returned. "I am really fond of the aroma. I have tried to acquire the cigarette habit, but I have yet to learn what satisfaction you men get out of it."
Conversation veered in various directions, and finally rested upon the subject of piracy; and here the admiral proved himself a rare scholar. By some peculiar inadvertency, as he was in the middle of one of his own adventures, his finger touched the burglar alarm. Clang! Brrrr! From top to bottom of the house came the shock of differently voiced bells. The two men gazed at each other dumfounded. But the girl laughed merrily.
"You touched the alarm, father."
"I rather believe I did. And a few minutes before you came in with the toddies I tried it and it didn't work."
It took some time to quiet the servants; and when that was done
Fitzgerald determined to go down to the village.
"Good night, Mr. Fitzgerald," said the girl. "Better beware; this house is haunted."
"We'll see if we can't lay that ghost, as they say," he responded.
The admiral came to the door. "What do you make of it?" he whispered.
"You possibly did not press the button squarely the first time." And that was Fitzgerald's genuine belief.
"By the way, will you take a note for me to Swan's? It will not take me a moment to scribble it."
"Certainly."
Finally the young man found himself in the park, heading quickly toward the gates. He searched the night keenly, but this time he neither heard nor saw any one. Then he permitted his fancy to take short flights. Interesting situation! To find himself a guest here, when he had come keyed up for something strenuous! Pirates and jolly-rogers and mysterious trespassers and silent bells, to say nothing of a beautiful young woman with a leaning toward adventure! But the most surprising turn was yet to come.
In the office of Swan's hotel the landlord sat snoozing peacefully behind the desk. There was only one customer. He was a gray-haired, ruddy-visaged old salt in white duck—at this time of year!—and a blue sack-coat dotted with shining brass buttons, the whole five-foot-four topped by a gold-braided officer's cap. He was drinking what is jocularly called a "schooner" of beer, and finishing this he lurched from the room with a rolling, hiccoughing gait, due entirely to a wooden peg which extended from his right knee down to a highly polished brass ferrule.
Fitzgerald awakened the landlord and gave him the admiral's note.
"You will be sure and give this to the gentleman in the morning?"
"Certainly, sir. Mr. Karl Breitmann," reading the superscription aloud. "Yes, sir; first thing in the morning."
CHAPTER VI
SOME EXPLANATIONS
Karl Breitmann! Fitzgerald pulled off a shoe, and carefully deposited it on the floor beside his chair. Private secretary to Rear Admiral Killigrew, retired; Karl Breitmann! He drew off the second shoe, and placed it, with military preciseness, close to the first. Absently, he rose, with the intention of putting the pair in the hall, but remembered before he got as far as the door that it was not customary in America to put one's shoes outside in the halls. Ultimately, they would have been stolen or have remained there till the trump of doom.
Could there be two Breitmanns by the name of Karl? Here and there, across the world, he had heard of Breitmann, but never had he seen him since that meeting in Paris. And, simply because he had proved to be an enthusiastic student of Napoleon, like himself, he had taken the man to dinner. But that was nothing. Under the same circumstances he would have done the same thing again. There had been something fascinating about the fellow, either his voice or his manner. And there could be no doubting that he had been at ebb tide; the shiny coat, the white, but ragged linen, the cracked patent leathers.
A baron, and to reach the humble grade of private secretary to an eccentric millionaire—for the admiral, with all his kindliness and common sense, was eccentric—this was a fall. Where were his newspapers? There was a dignity to foreign work, even though in Europe the pay is small. There was trouble going on here and there, petty wars and political squabbles. Yes, where were his newspapers? Had he tried New York? If not, in that case, he—Fitzgerald—could be of some solid assistance. And Cathewe knew him, or had met him.
Fitzgerald had buffeted the high and low places; he seldom made mistakes in judging men offhand, an art acquired only after many initial blunders. This man Breitmann was no sham; he was a scholar, a gentleman, a fine linguist, versed in politics and war. Well, the little mystery would be brushed aside in the morning. Breitmann would certainly recognize him.
But to have forgotten the girl! To have permitted a course of events to discover her! Shameful! He jumped into bed, and pulled the coverlet close to his nose, and was soon asleep, sleep broken by fantastic dreams, in which the past and present mixed with the improbable chances of the future.
Thump-thump, thump-thump! To Fitzgerald's fogged hearing, it was like the pulse beating in the bowels of a ship, only that it stopped and began at odd intervals, intermittently. At the fourth recurrence, he sat up, to find that it was early morning, and that the sea lay; gray and leaden, under the pearly haze of dawn. Thump-thump! He rubbed his eyes, and laughed. It could be no less a person than the old sailor in the summer-yachting toggery. Drat 'em! These sailors were always trying to beat sun-up. At length, the peg left the room above, and banged along the hall and bumped down the stairs. Then all became still once more, and the listener snuggled under the covers again, and slept soundly till eight. Outside, the day was full, clear, and windy.
On the way to the dining-room, he met the man. The scars were a little deeper in color and the face was thinner, but there was no shadow of doubt in Fitzgerald's mind.
"Breitmann?" he said, with a friendly hand.
The other stood still. There was no recognition in his eyes; at least,
Fitzgerald saw none.
"Breitmann is my name, sir," he replied courteously.
"I am Fitzgerald; don't you remember me? We dined in Paris last year, after we had spent the afternoon with the Napoleonic relics. You haven't forgotten Macedonia?"
Breitmann took the speaker by the arm, and turned him round. Fitzgerald had been standing with his back to the light. The scrutiny was short. The eyes of the Bavarian softened, though the quizzical wrinkles at the corners remained unchanged. All at once his whole expression warmed.
"It is you? And what do you here?" extending both hands.
Some doubt lingered in Fitzgerald's mind; yet the welcome was perfect, from whichever point he chose to look. "Come in to breakfast," he said, "and I'll tell you."
"My table is here; sit by the window. Who was it said that the world is small? Do you know, that dinner in Paris was the first decent meal I had had in a week? And I didn't recognize you at once! Herr Gott!" with sudden weariness. "Perhaps I have had reason to forget many things. But you?"
Fitzgerald spread his napkin over his knees. There was only one other man breakfasting. He was a small, wiry person, white of hair, and spectacled, and was at that moment curiously employed. He had pinned to the table a small butterfly, yellow, with tiny dots on the wings. He was critically inspecting his find through a jeweler's glass.
"I am visiting friends here," began Fitzgerald. "Rear Admiral Killigrew was an old friend of my father's. I did not expect to remain, but the admiral and his daughter insisted; so I am sending to New York for my luggage, and will go up this morning." He saw no reason for giving fuller details.
"So it must have been you who brought the admiral's note. It is fate.
Thanks. Some day that casual dinner may give you good interest"
The little man with the butterfly bent lower over his prize.
"Do you believe in curses?" asked Breitmann.
"Ordinary, every-day curses, yes; but not in Roman anathemas."
"Neither of those. I mean the curse that sometimes dogs a man, day and night; the curse of misfortune. I was hungry that night in Paris; I have been hungry many times since, I have held honorable places; to-day, I become a servant at seventy-five dollars a month and my bread and butter. A private secretary."
"But why aren't you with some newspaper?" asked Fitzgerald, breaking his eggs.
Breitmann drew up his shoulders. "For the same reason that I am renting my brains as a private secretary. It was the last thing I could find, and still retain a little self-respect. My heart was dead when the admiral told me he had already engaged a secretary. But your note brought me the position."
"But the newspapers?"
"None of them will employ me."
"In New York, with your credentials?"
"Even so."
"I don't quite understand."
"It would take too long to explain."
"I can give you some letters."
"Thank you. It would be useless. Secretly and subterraneously, I have had the bottom knocked out from under my feet. Why, God knows! But no more of that. Some day I will give you my version."
The little man smiled over his butterfly, took out a wallet, something on the pattern of a fisherman's, and put the new-found specimen into one of the mica compartments, in which other dead butterflies of variant beauty reposed.
"So I become a private secretary, till the time offers something better." Breitmann stared at the sea.
"I am sorry. I wish I could help you. Better let me try." Fitzgerald stirred his coffee. "You are convinced that there is some cabal working against you in the newspaper business? That seems strange. Some of them must have heard of your work—London, Paris, Berlin. Have you tried them all?"
"Yes. Nothing for me, but promises as thick as yonder sands."
The little man rose, and walked out of the room, smiling.
"Splendid!" he murmured. "What a specimen to add to my collection!"
"Do you know what your duties will be?" Fitzgerald inquired.
"They will consist of replying to begging letters from the needy and deserving, from crazy inventors, and ministers. In the meantime, I am to do translating, together with indexing a vast library devoted to pirates. Droll, isn't it?" Breitmann laughed, but this time without bitterness.
"It is a harmless hobby," rather resenting Breitmann's tone.
"More than that," quickly; "it is philanthropic, since it will employ me for some length of time."
"When do they expect you?"
"At half-after ten."
"We'll go up together, then. Did you see the admiral's daughter?"
"A daughter? Has he one?" Breitmann accepted this news with an expression of disfavor.
"Yes; and charming, I can tell you. It's all very odd. In Paris that night, they both sat at the next table."
"Why did you not speak to them?"
"Didn't know who they were. The admiral was one of my father's boyhood friends, and I did not meet them till very recently;" which was all true enough. For some unaccountable reason, Fitzgerald found that he was on guard. "I have ordered an open carriage. If you have any trunks, I can take them up for you."
"It will be good of you."
They proceeded to finish the repast, and then sought the office, for their reckoning. Later, they strolled toward the water front. Fitzgerald, during moments when the talk lagged, thought over the meeting. There was a false ring to it somewhere. If Breitmann had been turned down in all the offices in New York, there must have been some good cause. Newspapers were not passing over men of this fellow's experience, unless he had been proved untrustworthy. Breitmann had not told him everything; he had even told him too little. Still, he would withhold his judgment till he heard from New York on the subject. Cathewe hadn't been enthusiastic over the name; but Cathewe was never inclined to enthusiasms.
Passing the angle of the freight depot brought the little harbor into full view. A fine white yacht lay tugging at her cables.
"There's a beauty," said Fitzgerald admiringly.
"She looks as if she could take care of herself. How fresh the green water-line looks! She'll be fast in moderate weather; a fair thousand tons, perhaps."
"A close guess."
"I understand she belongs to my employer. I hope he takes the sea soon. I suppose you know that I have knocked about some as a sailor."
"That will help you into the good graces of the admiral."
"How dull and uninteresting the coast-lines are here! No gardens, no palms, nothing of beauty."
"You must remember the immensity of this coast and that our summers are really less than three months. Here comes one who can tell us about the yacht," cried Fitzgerald, espying the peg-legged sailor. "I say!" he hailed, as the old sailor drew nigh; "you are on the Laura, are you not?"
"Yessir. An' I've bin on her since she wus commissioned as a pleasure yacht, sir. Capt'n."
"Ah!"
"Fought under th' commodore in th' war, sir; an' he knows me, an' I knows him; an' when Flanagan is on th' bridge, he doesn't signal no pilots between Key West an' St. Johns."
"I am visiting the admiral," said Fitzgerald, amused.
"Oh!" Captain Flanagan ducked, with his hand to his cap. On land, he was likely to imitate landsmen in manners and politeness; but on board he tipped his hat to nobody; leastwise, to nobody but Miss Laura, bless her heart! "I reckon one o' you is th' new sec'rety."
"Yes, I am the new secretary," replied Breitmann, unsmiling.
"Furrin parts?"
"Yes."
"Well, well!" as if, while he couldn't help the fact, it was none the less to be pitied. "You'll be comin' aboard soon, then. Off for th' Banks. Take my word for it, you'll find her as stiddy as one o' your floatin' hotels, sir, where you don't see no sailor but a deck hand as swabs th' scuppers when a beam sea's on. Good mornin'!" And Captain Flanagan stumped off toward the village.
Breitmann shrugged contemptuously.
"He may not be in European yachting form," admitted Fitzgerald, "but he's the kind of man who makes a navy a good fighting machine."
"But we usually pick out gentlemen to captain our private yachts."
"Oh, this Flanagan is an exception. There is probably a fighting bond between him and the admiral; that makes some difference. You observed, he called the owner by the title of commodore, as he did thirty-five years ago. Ten o'clock; we should be going up."
The carriage was at the hotel when they returned. They bundled in their traps, and drove away.
The little man now dropped into the railway station, and stuck his head into the ticket aperture. The agent, who was seated before the telegraph keys, looked up.
"No tickets before half-past ten, sir."
"I am not wanting a ticket. I wish to know if I can send a cable from here."
"A cable? Sure. Where to?"
"Paris."
"Yes, sir. I telegraph it to the cable office in New York, and they do the rest. Here are some blanks."
The other wrote some hieroglyphics, which made the address impossible to decipher, save that it was directed mainly to Paris. The body of the cablegram contained a single word. The writer paid the toll, and went away.
"Now, what would you think of that?" murmured the operator, scratching his head in perplexity. "Well, the company gets the money, so it's all the same to me. Butterflies; and all the rest in French. Next time it'll be bugs. All right; here goes!"
CHAPTER VII
A BIT OF ROMANTIC HISTORY
The house at the top of the hill had two names. It had once been called The Watch Tower, for reasons but vaguely known by the present generation of villagers. To-day it was generally styled The Pines. Yet even this had fallen into disuse, save on the occupant's letter paper. When any one asked where Rear Admiral Killigrew lived, he was directed to "the big white house at the top o' the hill."
The Killigrews had not been born and bred there. Its builder had been a friend of King George; that is, his sympathies had been with taxation without representation. One day he sold the manor cheap. His reasons were sufficient. It then became the property of a wealthy trader, who died in it. This was in 1809. His heirs, living, and preferring to live, in Philadelphia, put up a sign; and being of careful disposition, kept the place in excellent repair.
In the year 1816, it passed into the hands of a Frenchman, and during his day the villagers called the house The Watch Tower; for the Frenchman was always on the high balcony, telescope in hand, gazing seaward. No one knew his name. He dealt with the villagers through his servant, who could speak English, himself professing that he could not speak the language. He was a recluse, almost a hermit. At odd times, a brig would be seen dropping anchor in the offing. She was always from across the water, from the old country, as villagers to this day insist upon calling Europe. The manor during these peaceful invasions showed signs of life. Men from the brig went up to the big white house, and remained there for a week or a month. And they were lean men, battle-scarred and fierce of eye, some with armless sleeves, some with stiff legs, some twisted with rheumatism. All spoke French, and spat whenever they saw the perfidious flag of old England. This was not marked against them as a demerit, for the War of 1812 was yet smoking here and there along the Great Lakes. Suddenly, they would up and away, and the manor would reassume its repellent aloofness. Each time they returned their number was diminished. Old age had succeeded war as a harvester. In 1822, the mysterious old recluse surrendered the ghost. His heirs—ignored and hated by him for their affiliation with the Bourbons—sold it to the father of the admiral.
The manor wasn't haunted. The hard-headed longshoremen and sailors who lived at the foot of the hill were a practical people, to whom spirits were something mostly and generally put up in bottles, and emptied on sunless, blustery days. Still, they wouldn't have been human if they had not done some romancing.
There were a dozen yarns, each at variance with the other. First, the old "monseer" was a fugitive from France; everybody granted that. Second, that he had helped to cut off King Lewis' head; but nobody could prove that. Third, that he was a retired pirate; but retired pirates always wound up their days in riotous living, so this theory died. Fourth, that he had been a great soldier in the Napoleonic wars, and this version had some basis, as the old man's face was slashed and cut, some of his fingers were missing, and he limped. Again, he had been banished from France for a share in the Hundred Days. But, all told, nothing was proved conclusively, though the villagers burrowed and delved and hunted and pried, as villagers are prone to do when a person appears among them and keeps his affairs strictly to himself.
But the next generation partly forgot, and the present only indifferently remembered that, once upon a time, a French emigré had lived and died up there. They knew all there was to know about the present owner. It was all compactly written and pictured in a book of history, which book agents sold over the land, even here in Dalton.
All these things Fitzgerald and his companion learned from the driver on the journey up the incline.
"Where was this Frenchman buried?" inquired Breitmann softly.
"In th' cemet'ry jest over th' hill. But nobody knows jest where he is now. Stone's gone, an' th' ground's all level that end. He wus on'y a Frenchman. But th' admiral, now you're talkin'! He pays cash, an' don't make no bargain rates, when he wants a job done. Go wan, y' ol' nag; what y' dreamin' of?"
"There might be history in that corner of the graveyard," said
Breitmann.
"Who knows? Good many strange bits of furniture found their way over here during those tremendous times. Beautiful place in the daytime; eh?" Fitzgerald added, with an inclination toward The Pines.
"More like an Italian villa than an Englishman's home. Good gardeners,
I should say."
"Culture and money will make a bog attractive."
"Is the admiral cultured, then?"
"I should imagine so. But I am sure the daughter is. Not that veneer which passes for it, but that deep inner culture, which gives a deft, artistic touch to the hand, softens the voice, gives elegance to the carriage, with a heart and mind nicely balanced. Judge for yourself, when you see her. If there is any rare knickknack in the house, it will have been put there by the mother's hand or the daughter's. The admiral, I believe, occupies himself with his books, his butterflies, and his cruises."
"A daughter. She is cultured, you say? Ah, if culture would only take beauty in hand! But always she selects the plainer of two women."
Fitzgerald smiled inwardly. "I have told you she is not plain."
"Oh, beautiful," thoughtfully. "Culture and beauty; I shall be pleased to observe."
"H'm! If there is any marrow in your bones, my friend, you'll show more interest when you see her." This was thought, not spoken. Fitzgerald wasn't going to rhapsodize over Miss Killigrew's charms. It would have been not only incautious, but suspicious. Aloud, he said: "She has a will of her own, I take it; however, of a quiet, resolute order."
"So long as she is not capricious, and does not interfere with my work—"
"Or peace of mind!" interrupted Fitzgerald, with prophetic suddenness, which was modified by laughter.
"No, my friend; no woman has ever yet stirred my heart, though many have temporarily captured my senses. A man in my position has no right to love," with a dignity which surprised his auditor.
Fitzgerald looked down at the wheels. There was something even more than dignity, an indefinable something, a superiority which Fitzgerald's present attitude of mind could not approach.
"This man," he mused, "will afford some interesting study. One would think that nothing less than a grand duke was riding in this rattling old carryall." There was silence for a time. "I must warn you, Breitmann, that, in all probability, you will have your meals at the table with the admiral and his daughter; at least, in this house."
"At the same table? It would hardly be so in Europe. But it pleases me. I have been alone so much that I grow moody; and that is not good."
There was always that trifling German accent, no matter what tongue he used, but it was perceptible only to the trained ear. And yet, to Fitzgerald's mind, the man was at times something Gallic in his liveliness.
"You will never use your title, then?"
Breitmann laughed. "No."
"You have made a great mistake. You should have fired the first shot with it. You would have married an heiress by this time," ironically, "and all your troubles would be over."
"Or begun," in the same spirit. "I'm no fortune hunter, in the sense you mean. Pah! I have no debts; no crumbling schloss to rebuild. All I ask is to be let alone," with a flash of that moodiness of which he had spoken. "How long will you be here?"
"Can't say. Three or four days, perhaps. It all depends. What shall
I say about you to them?"
"As little as possible."
"And that's really about all I could say," with a suggestion.
But the other failed to meet the suggestion half-way.
"You might forget about my ragged linen in Paris," acridly.
"I'll omit that," good-naturedly. "Come, be cheerful; fortune's wheel will turn, and it pulls up as well as down. Remember that."
"I must be on the ascendancy, for God knows that I am at the nadir just at present." He breathed in the sweet freshness which still clung to the morning, and settled his shoulders like a recruiting sergeant.
"How well the man has studied his English!" thought Fitzgerald. He rarely hesitated for a word, and his idioms were always nicely adjusted.
The admiral was alone. He received them with an easy courtliness, which is more noticeable in the old world than in the new. He directed the servants to take charge of the luggage, and to Breitmann there was never a word about work. That had all been decided by letter. He urged the new secretary to return to the library as soon as he had established himself.
"Strange that you should know the man," said the admiral. "It comes in pat. From what you say, he must be a brilliant fellow. But this situation seems rather out of his line."
"We all have our ups and downs, admiral. I've known a pinch or two myself. We are an improvident lot, we writers, who wander round the globe; rich to-day, poor to-morrow. But on the other hand, it's something to set down on paper what a king says, the turn of a battle, to hobnob with famous men, explorers, novelists, painters, soldiers, scientists, to say nothing of the meat in the pie and the bottom crust. I'm going to write a novel some day myself."
"Here," said the admiral, with a sweep of the hand, which included the row upon row of books, "come here to do it. Make it a pirate story; there's always room for another."
"But it takes a Stevenson to write it. It is very good of you, though.
Where is Miss Killigrew this morning?"
"She hasn't returned from her ride. Ah! Come in, Mr. Breitmann, and sit down. By the way, you two must be fair horsemen."
Breitmann smiled, and Fitzgerald laughed.
"I dare say," replied the latter, "that there's only one thing we two haven't ridden: ostriches. Camels and elephants and donkeys; we've done some warm sprinting. Eh, Breitmann?"
The secretary agreed with a nod. He was rather grateful for Fitzgerald's presence. This occupation was not going to be menial; at the least, there would be pleasant sides to it. And, then, it might not take him a week to complete his own affair. There was no misreading the admiral; he was a gentleman, affable, kindly, and a good story-teller, too, crisp and to the point, sailor fashion. Breitmann cleverly drew him out. Pirates! He dared not smile. Why, there was hardly such a thing in the pearl zone, and China was on the highway to respectability. And every once in so often there was a futile treasure hunt! He grew cold. If this old man but knew!
"Do you know butterflies, Mr. Fitzgerald?"
"Social?"
The admiral laughed. "No. The law doesn't permit you to stick pins in that kind. No; I mean that kind," indicating the cases.
Both young men admitted that this field had been left unexplored by either of them.
It was during a lull, when the talk had fallen to the desultory, that the hall door opened, and Laura came in. Her cheeks glowed like the sunny side of a Persian peach; her eyes sparkled; between her moist red lips there was a flash of firm, white teeth; the seal-brown hair glinted a Venetian red—for at that moment she stood in the path of the sunshine which poured in at the window—and blown tendrils in picturesque disorder escaped from under her hat.
The three men rose hastily; the father with pride, Fitzgerald with gladness, and Breitmann with doubt and wonder and fear.
CHAPTER VIII
SOME BIRDS IN A CHIMNEY
It might be truthfully said that the tableau lasted as long as she willed it to last. Perhaps she read in the three masculine faces turned toward her a triangular admiration, since it emanated from three given points, and took from it a modest pinch for her vanity. Vain she never was; still, she was not without a share of vanity, that vanity of the artless, needing no sacrifices, which is gratified and appeased by a smile. It pleased her to know that she was lovely; and it doubled her pleasure to realize that her loveliness pleased others. She demanded no hearts; she craved no jewels, no flattery. She warmed when eyes told her she was beautiful; but she chilled whenever the lips took up the speech, and voiced it. She was one of those happy beings in either sex who can amuse themselves, who can hold pleasant communion with the inner self, who can find romance in old houses, and yet love books, who prefer sunrises and sunsets at first hand, still loving a good painting.
Perhaps this trend of character was the result of her inherited love of the open. With almost unlimited funds under her own hand, she lived simply. She was never happy in smart society, though it was always making demands upon her. When abroad, she was generally prowling through queer little shops instead of mingling with the dress parades on the grand-hotel terraces. There was no great battle-field in Europe she had not trod upon. She knew them so well that she could people each field with the familiar bright regiments, bayonets and sabers, pikes and broadswords, axes and crossbowmen, matchlock and catapult, rifles and cannon.
And what she did not know of naval warfare her father did. They were very companionable. There was never any jealousy on the part of the admiral. Indeed, he was always grateful when some young man evinced a deep regard for his daughter. He would have her always, married or unmarried. He was rich enough, and the son-in-law should live with him. He was so assured of her good judgment, he knew that whenever this son-in-law came along, there would be another man in the family. He had long ceased to bother his head about the flylike buzzing of fortune hunters. He had been father and mother and brother to the child, and with wisdom.
She smiled at her father, gave her hand to Fitzgerald, who found it warm and moist from the ride, and glanced inquiringly at Breitmann.
"My dear," said her father, "this is Mr. Breitmann, my new secretary."
That gentleman bowed stiffly, and the scars faded somewhat when he observed that her hand was extended in welcome. This unconventionality rather confused him, and as he took the hand he almost kissed it. She understood the innocence of the gesture, and saved him from embarrassment by withdrawing the hand casually.
"I hope you will like it here," was the pleasant wish.
"Thank you, I shall."
"You are German?" quickly.
"I was born in Bavaria, Miss Killigrew."
"The name should have told me." She excused herself.
"Oho!" thought Fitzgerald, with malicious exultancy. "If she doesn't interfere with your work!"
But with introspection, this exultancy grew suddenly dim. How about himself? Yes. Here was a question that would bear some close inspection. Was it really the wish to capture a supposable burglar? He made short work of this analysis. He never lied to others—not even in his work, which every one knows is endowed with special licenses in regard to truth—nor did he ever play the futile, if soothing, game of lying to himself. This girl was different from the ordinary run of girls; she might become dangerous. He determined then and there not to prolong his visit more than three or four days; just to satisfy her that there was no ghost in the chimney. Then he would return to New York. He had no more right than Breitmann to fall in love with the daughter of a millionaire. Loving her was not impossible, but leaving at an early day would go toward lessening the probability. He was not afraid of Breitmann; he was foreigner enough to accept at once his place, and to appreciate that he and this girl stood at the two ends of the world.
And Breitmann's mind, which had, up to this time, been deep and unruffled as a pool, became strangely disturbed.
The time moved on to luncheon. Breitmann took the part of listener, and spoke only when addressed.
"I must tell you, Mr. Breitmann," said Laura, "that a ghost has returned to us."
"A ghost?" interestedly.
"Yes. My daughter," said the admiral tolerantly, "believes that she hears strange noises at night, tapping, and such like."
"Oh!" politely. Breitmann broke his bread idly. It was too bad. She had not produced upon him the impression that she was the sort of woman whose imagination embraced the belief in spirits. "Where does this ghost do its tapping?"
"In the big chimney in the library," she answered.
No one observed Breitmann's hand as it slid from the bread, some of which was scattered upon the floor. The scars, betraying emotion such as no mental effort could control, deepened, which is to say that the skin above and below them had paled.
"Might it not be some trial visit of your patron saint, Santa Claus?" he inquired, his voice well under control.
"Really, it is no jest," she affirmed. "For several nights I have heard the noise distinctly; a muffled tapping inside the chimney."
"Suppose we inspect it after luncheon?" suggested Fitzgerald.
"It has been done," said the admiral. Outwardly he was still skeptical, but a doubt was forming in his mind.
"It will do no harm to try it again," said Breitmann.
If Fitzgerald noted the subdued excitement in the man's voice, he charged it to the moment.
"Take my word for it," avowed the admiral, "you will find nothing.
Bring the coffee into the library," he added to the butler.
The logs were taken out of the fireplace, and as soon as the smoke cleared the young men gave the inside of the chimney a thorough going over. They could see the blue sky away up above. The opening was large, but far too small for any human being to enter down it. The mortar between the bricks seemed for the most part undisturbed. Breitmann made the first discovery of any importance. Just above his height, standing in the chimney itself, he saw a single brick projecting beyond its mates. He reached up, and shook it. It was loose. He wrenched it out, and came back into the light.
"See! Nothing less than a chisel could have cut the mortar that way. Miss Killigrew is right." He went back, and with the aid of the tongs poked into the cavity. The wall of bricks was four deep, yet the tongs went through. This business had been done from the other side.
"Well!" exclaimed the admiral, for once at loss for a proper phrase.
"You see, father? I was right. Now, what can it mean? Who is digging out the bricks, and for what purpose? And how, with the alarms all over the house, to account for the footprints in the flour?"
"It is quite likely that something is hidden in the chimney, and some one knows that it is worth hunting for. This chimney is the original, I should judge." Fitzgerald addressed this observation to the admiral.
"Never been touched during my time or my father's. But we can soon find out. I'll have a man up here. If there is anything in the chimney that ought not to be there, he'll dig it out, and save our midnight visitor any further trouble."
"Why not wait a little while?" Fitzgerald ventured. "With Breitmann and me in the house, we might trap the man."
"A good scheme!"
"He comes from the outside, somewhere; from the cellar, probably. Let us try the cellar." Breitmann urged this with a gesture of his hands.
"There'll be sport," said Fitzgerald.
The coffee was cold in the little cups when they returned to it. The cellar, as far as any one could learn, was free from any signs of recent invasion. It was puzzling.
"And the servants?" Breitmann intimated.
"They have been in the family for years." The admiral shook his head convincedly. "I ask your pardon, my dear. My ears are not so keen as might be. I'm an old blockhead to think that you were having an attack of ghosts. But we'll solve the riddle shortly, and then we shan't have any trouble with our alarm bells," with a significant glance at Fitzgerald. "Well, Mr. Breitmann, suppose we take a look at the work? Laura, you show Mr. Fitzgerald the gardens. The view from the terrace is excellent."
Fine weather. The orchard was pink with apple blossoms, giving the far end of the park a tint not unlike Sicilian almonds in bloom. And the intermittent breeze, as it waned or strengthened, carried delicate perfumes to and fro. Yon was the sea, with well-defined horizon, and down below were the few smacks and the white yacht Laura, formally bowing to one another, or tossing their noses impudently; and, far away, was the following trail of brown smoke from some ship which had dropped down the horizon.
Fitzgerald, stood silent, musing, at the girl's side. He was fond of vistas. There was rest in them, a peace not to be found even in the twilight caverns of cathedrals; wind blowing over waters, the flutter of leaves, the bend in the grasses. To dwell in a haven like this. No care, no worry, no bother of grubbing about in one's pockets for overlooked coins, no flush of excitement! It is, after all, the homeless man who answers quickest the beckon of wanderlust. It is only when he comes into the shelter of such a roof that he draws into his heart the bitter truth of his loneliness.
"You must think me an odd girl."
"Pray why?"
"By the manner in which I brought you here."
"On the contrary, you are one of the few women I ever met who know something about scoring a good joke. Didn't your friend, Mrs. Coldfield, know my mother; and wasn't your father a great friend of my father's? As for being odd, what about me? I believe I stood on the corner, and tried to sell plaster casts, just to win a foolish club wager."
"Men can jest that way with impunity, but a woman may not. Still, I really couldn't help acting the way I did," with a tinkle in her voice and a twinkle in her eyes.
"Convention is made up of many idiotic laws. Why we feel obliged to obey is beyond offhand study. Of course, the main block is sensible; it holds humanity together. It's the irritating, burr-like amendments that one rages against. It's the same in politics. Some clear-headed fellow gets up and makes a just law. His enemies and his friends alike realize that if the law isn't passed there will be a roar from the public. So they pass the bill with amendments. In other words, they kill its usefulness. I suppose that's why I am always happy to leave convention behind, to be sent to the middle of Africa, to Patagonia, or sign an agreement to go to the North Pole."
"The North Pole? Have you been to the Arctic?"
"No; but I expect to go up in June with an Italian explorer."
"Isn't it terribly lonely up there?"
"It can't be worse than the Sahara or our own Death Valley. One extreme is as bad as the other. Some time I hope your father will take me along on one of those treasure hunts. I should like to be in at the finding of a pirate ship. It would make a boy out of me again."
His eyes were very handsome when he smiled. Boy? she thought. He was scarce more than that now.
"Pirates' gold! What a lure it has been, is, and will be! Blood money, brrr! I can see no pleasure in touching it. And the poor, pathetic trinkets, which once adorned some fair neck! It takes a man's mind to pass over that side of the picture, and see only the fighting. But humanity has gone on. The pirate is no more, and the highwayman is a thing to laugh at."
"Thanks to railways and steamships. It is beautiful here."
"We are nearly always here in the summer. In the winter we cruise. But this winter we remained at home. It was splendid. The snow was deep, and often I joined the village children on their bobsleds. I made father ride down once. He grumbled about making a fool of himself. After the first slide, I couldn't keep him off the hill. He wants to go to St. Moritz next winter." She laughed joyously.
"I shall take the Arctic trip," he said to himself irrelevantly.
"Let us go and pick some apple blossoms. They last such a little while, and they are so pretty on the table. So you were in Napoleon's tomb that day? I have cried over the king of Rome's toys. Did Mr. Breitmann receive those scars in battle?"
"Oh, no. It was a phase of his student life in Munich. But he has been under fire. He has had some hard luck." He wanted to add: "Poor devil!"
She did not reply, but walked down the terrace steps to the path leading to the orchard. The sturdy, warty old trees leaned toward the west, the single evidence of the years of punishment received at the hands of the winter sea tempests. It was a real orchard, composed of several hundred trees, well kept, as evenly matched as might be, out of weedless ground. From some hidden bough, a robin voiced his happiness, and yellowbirds flew hither and thither, and there was billing and cooing and nesting. Along the low stone wall a wee chipmunk scampered.
"What place do you like best in this beautiful old world?" she asked, drawing down a snowy bough. Some of the blossoms fell and lay entrapped in her hair.
"This," he answered frankly. She met his gaze quickly, and with suspicion. His face was smiling, but not so his eyes. "Wherever I am, if content, I like that place best. And I am content here."
"You fought with Greece?"
"Yes."
"How that country always rouses our sympathies! Isn't there a little too much poetry and not enough truth about it?"
"There is. I fought with the Greeks because I disliked them less than the Turks."
"And Mr. Breitmann?"
He smiled. "He fought with the Turks to chastise Greece, which he loves."
"What adventures you two must have had! To be on opposing sides, like that!"
"Opposing newspapers. The two angles of vision made our copy interesting. There was really no romance about it. It was purely a business transaction. We offered our lives and our pencils for a hundred a week and our expenses. Rather sordid side to it, eh? And a fourth-rate order or two—"
"You were decorated?" excitedly. "I am sure it was for bravery."
"Don't you believe it. The king of Greece and the sultan both considered the honor conferred upon us as good advertising."
"You are laughing."
"Well, war in the Balkans is generally a laughing matter. Sounds brutal, I know, but it is true."
"I know," gaily. "You are conceited, and are trying to make me believe that you are modest."
"A bull's-eye!"
"And this Mr. Breitmann has been decorated for valor? And yet to-day he becomes my father's private secretary. The two do not connect."
"May I ask you to mention nothing of this to him? It would embarrass him. I had no business to bring him into it."
She grew meditative, brushing her lips with the blossoms. "He will be something of a mystery. I am not overfond of mysteries outside of book covers."
"There is really no mystery; but it is human for a man in his position to wish to bury his past greatness."
By and by the sun touched the southwest shoulder of the hill, and the two strolled back to the house.
From his window, Breitmann could see them plainly.
"Damn those scars!" he murmured, striking with his fist the disfigured cheek, which upon a time had been a source of pride and honor. "Damn them!"