|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 53
M. Ferraud coolly, took off his spectacles and polished the lenses. It
needed but a moment to adjust them. "What are you talking about?"
"You are really M. Ferraud?" said the young man coldly.
The Frenchman produced a wallet and took out a letter. It was written
by the president of France, introducing M. Ferraud to the ambassador at
Washington. Next, there was a passport, and far more important than
either of these was the Legion of Honor. "Yes, I am Anatole Ferraud."
"That is all I desire to know."
"Shall we return to the ladies?" asked M. Ferraud, restoring his
treasures.
"Since there is nothing more to be said at present. It seems strange
to me that foreign politics should find its way here."
"Politics? I am only a butterfly hunter."
"There are varieties. But you are the man. I shall find out!"
"Possibly," returned M. Ferraud thinking hard.
"I give you fair warning that if anything is missing--"
"Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald!"
"I shall know where to look for it," with a smile which had no humor in
it.
"Why not denounce me now?"
"Would it serve your purpose?"
"No," with deeper gravity. "It would be a great disaster; how great, I
can not tell you."
"Then, I shall say nothing."
"About what?" dryly, even whimsically.
"About your being a secret agent from France."
This time M. Ferraud's glance proved that he was truly startled. Only
three times in his career had his second life been questioned or
suspected. He eyed his hands accusingly; they had betrayed him. This
young man was clever, cleverer than he had thought. He had been too
confident and had committed a blunder. Should he trust him? With that
swift unerring instinct which makes the perfect student of character,
he said: "You will do me a great favor not to impart this suspicion to
any one else."
"Suspicion?"
"It is true: I am a secret agent;" and he said it proudly.
"You wish harm to none here?"
"_Mon dieu_! No. I am here for the very purpose of saving you all
from heartaches and misfortune and disillusion. And had I set to work
earlier I should have accomplished all this without a single one of you
knowing it. Now the matter will have to go on to its end."
"Can you tell me anything?"
"Not now. I trust you; will you trust me?"
Fitzgerald hesitated for a space. "Yes."
"For that, thanks," and M. Ferraud put out a hand. "It is clean, Mr.
Fitzgerald, for all that the skin is broken."
"Of that I have no doubt."
"Before we reach Corsica you will know."
And so temporarily that ended the matter. But as Fitzgerald went over
to the chair just vacated by the secretary, he found that there was a
double zest to life now. This would be far more exciting than dodging
ice-floes and freezing one's toes.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|