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Page 23
"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?"
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