h that man Flanagan. I wasn't expecting him ashore.
And I could not stand the grime and jeans a minute longer. Perhaps he
will believe it a case of mistaken identity. At any rate he will not
find out the truth till it's too late for him to make a disturbance.
We have had wonderful luck!"

A cart rumbled past, and the listener missed a few sentences. What did
the drivers understand? What was going to happen on the way back from
Evisa? Surely, Breitmann did not intend that the admiral should do the
work and then be held up later. The old American sailor wasn't afraid
of any one, and he would shoot to kill. No, no; Breitmann meant to
secure the gold alone. But the drivers worried M. Ferraud. He might
be forced to change his plans on their account. He wanted full
details, not puzzling components. Quiet prevailed once more.

"Women in affairs of this sort are always in the way," said Picard.

M. Ferraud did not hear what Breitmann replied.

"Take my word for it," pursued Picard, "this one will trip you; and you
can not afford to trip at this stage. We are all ready to strike, man.
All we want is the money. Every ten francs of it will buy a man. We
leave Marseilles in your care; the rest of us will carry the word on to
Lyons, Dijon and Paris. With this unrest in the government, the army
scandals, the dissatisfied employees, and the idle, we shall raise a
whirlwind greater than '50 or '71. We shall reach Paris with half a
million men."

Again Breitmann said something lowly. M. Ferraud would have liked to
see his face.

"But what are you going to do with the other woman?"

Two women: M. Ferraud saw the ripple widen and draw near. One woman he
could not understand, but two simplified everything. The drivers and
two women.

"The other?" said Breitmann. "She is of no importance."

M. Ferraud shook his head.

"Oh, well; this will be, your private affair. Captain Grasset will
arrive from Nice to-morrow night. Two nights later we all should be on
board and under way. Do you know, we have been very clever. Not a
suspicion anywhere of what we are about."

"Do you recollect M. Ferraud?" inquired Breitmann.

"That little fool of a butterfly-hunter?" the duke asked.

M. Ferraud smiled and gazed laughingly up at the grill.

"He is no fool," abruptly. "He is a secret agent, and not one move
have we made that is unknown to him."

"Impossible!"

M. Ferraud could not tell whether the consternation