puzzled commiseration, came to the
conclusion that the young man's liver had resumed its normal functions.
An old woman would have diagnosed the case as one of heart (as Mrs.
Coldfield secretly and readily and happily did); but an old fellow like
the admiral generally compromises on the liver.

When one has journeyed for days on the unquiet sea, a touch of land
underfoot renews, Antaeus-wise, one's strength and mental activity; so
a festive spirit presided at the dinner table. The admiral determined
to vault the enforced repression of his secret. Inasmuch as it must be
told, the present seemed a propitious moment. He signed for the
attendants to leave the salon, and then rapped on the table for
silence. He obtained it easily enough.

"My friends," he began, "where do you think this boat is really going?"

"Marseilles," answered Coldfield.

"Where else?" cried M. Ferraud, as if diversion from that course was
something of an improbability.

"Corsica. We can leave you at Marseilles, Mr. Ferraud, if you wish;
but I advise you to remain with us. It will be something to tell in
your old age."

Cathewe glanced across to Fitzgerald, as if to ask: "Do you know
anything about this?" Fitzgerald, catching the sense of this mute
inquiry, nodded affirmatively.

"Corsica is a beautiful place," said Hildegarde. "I spent a spring in
Ajaccio."

"Well, that is our port," confessed the admiral, laying his precious
documents on the table. "The fact is, we are going to dig up a
treasure," with a flourish.

Laughter and incredulous exclamations followed this statement.

"Pirates?" cried Coldfield, with a good-natured jeer. He had cruised
with the admiral before. "Where's the cutlass and jolly-roger? Yo-ho!
and a bottle o' rum!"

"Yes. And where's the other ship following at our heels, as they
always do in treasure hunts, the rival pirates who will cut our throats
when we have dug up the treasure?"--from Cathewe.

"Treasures!" mumbled M. Ferraud from behind his pineapple. Carefully
he avoided Fitzgerald's gaze, but he noted the expression on
Breitmann's face. It was not pleasant.

"Just a moment," the admiral requested patiently. "I know it smells
fishy. Laura, go ahead and read the documents to the unbelieving
giaours. Mr. Fitzgerald knows and so does Mr. Breitmann."

"Tell us about it, Laura. No joking, now," said Coldfield,
surrendering his incredulity with some hesitance. "And if the treasure
involve