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Page 34
CHAPTER IX
THEY DRESS FOR DINNER
Breitmann watched them as long as he could. There was no jealousy in
his heart, but there was bitterness, discontent, a savage
self-pillorying. He was genuinely sorry that this young woman was so
pretty; still, had she the graces of Calypso, he must have come. She
would distract him, and he desired at that time distraction least of
all diversions. Concentration and singleness of purpose--upon these
two attributes practically hung his life. How strangely fate had
stepped with him. What if there had not been that advertisement for a
private secretary? How then should he have gained a footing in this
house? Well, here he was, and speculation was of no value, save in a
congratulatory sense. The fly in the amber was the presence of the
young American; Fitzgerald, shrewd and clever, might stumble upon
something. Well, till against that time!
His room was pleasant, a corner which gave two excellent views, one of
the sea and the other of the orchard. There was no cluttering of
furniture; it was simple, substantial, decently old. On the plain
walls were some choice paintings. A landscape by Constable, a water
color by Fortuny, and a rough sketch by D�taille; and the inevitable
marines, such as one might expect in the house of a fighting sailor.
He examined these closely, and was rather pleased to find them valuable
old prints. And, better to his mind than all these, was the deft,
mysterious touch or suggestion of a woman's hand. He saw it in the
pillows on the lounge, in the curtains dropping from the windows, in
the counterpane on the old four-poster.
Did Americans usually house their private secretaries in rooms fit for
guests of long and intimate acquaintance? Ah, yes; this sailor was a
rich man; and this mansion had not been erected yesterday. It amused
him to think that these walls and richly polished floors were older
than the French revolution. It seemed incredible, but it was true.
"Pirates!" His laughter broke forth, not loudly but deeply, fired by a
broad and ready sense of humor--a perilous gift for a man who is
seeking fine hazards. It was droll, it was even fantastic. To cruise
about the world in search of pirate treasures, as if there remained a
single isle, shore, promontory, known to have been the haunt of
pirates, which had not been dug up and dug up again! And here, under
the very hand---- He struck his palms. "Why not?"
He ran to the window. The sleek white yacht lay tugging at her cables,
like an eager hound in the leash. "Seaworthy from stem to stern. Why
not? No better cloak than this. I may not make you a good secretary,
admiral; but, the gods propitious, I can, if needs say must, take you
treasure hunting. It will be a fine stroke. Is it possible that
fortune begins to smile on me at last? Well, I have had the patience
to wait. The hour has come, and fortune shall not find me laggard. It
has been something to wait as I have, never to have spoken, never to
have forgotten. France knows and Germany knows, but only me, not what
I have. They have even tried to drive me to crime. Wait, fools, wait!"
He drew his arms tightly over his heaving breast, for he was deeply
moved, while over his face came that indefinable light which, at times,
illuminates the countenance of a great man. It came and went; as a
flash of lightning betrays the oncoming storm.
The chimney! His heart missed a beat. He had forgotten the chimney.
The reaction affected him like a blow. A snarl twisted his mouth.
What was this chimney to any other man? Only he of all men, knew. And
yet, here was some one stealthily at work, forestalling him, knocking
the bottom out of his great dream. There was nothing pleasant in the
growing expression an his face; it was the tiger, waking. There could
be only one way.
Swiftly he dashed to his trunk, knelt and examined the lock, unscrewed
it, and took out the documents more precious to him than the treasures
of a hundred Captain Kidds. Instantly, he returned to the window.
Nothing was missing. But here was something he had never noticed
before. On the face of the slip of parchment--a diagram, dim and
faded--was an oily thumb-mark. The oil from the lock; nothing more;
doubtless he himself had touched it. How many times had he found an
unknown touch among his few belongings? How often had he smiled?
Still, to quell all rising doubts, he rubbed his right thumb on the
lock, and made a second impression. The daylight was now insufficient,
so he turned on the electricity, and compared them. Slowly, the scars
deepened till they were the tint of cedar. Death's head itself could
not have fascinated him more than the dissimilarity of these two
thumb-prints. He said nothing, but a queer little strangling sound
came through his lips.
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