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Page 86
"So," began Fitzgerald lightly, "your majesty goes forth to-night?"
But he overreached himself. Breitmann whirled, and all the hate in his
breast went into his arm as he struck. Fitzgerald threw up his guard,
but not soon enough. The blow hit him full on the side of the head and
toppled him over; and as the back of his head bumped the floor, the
world came to an end. When he regained his senses his head was
pillowed on a woman's knees and the scared white face of a woman bent
over his.
"What's happened?" he whispered. There were a thousand wicks where
there had been one and these went round and round in a circle.
Presently the effect wore away, and he recognized Laura. Then he
remembered. "By George!"
"What is it?" she cried, the bands of terror about her heart loosening.
"As a hero I'm a picture," he answered. "Why, I had an idea that
Breitmann was off to-night to dig up the treasure himself. Gone! And
only one blow struck, and I in front of it!"
"Breitmann?" exclaimed Laura. She caught her dressing-gown closer
about her throat.
"Yes. The temptation was too great. How did you get here?" He ought
to have struggled to his feet at once, but it was very comfortable to
feel her breath upon his forehead.
"I heard a fall and then some one running. Are you badly hurt?"
The anguish in her voice was as music to his ears.
"Dizzy, that's all. Better tell your father immediately. No, no; I
can get up alone. I'm all right. Fine rescuer of princesses, eh?"
with an unsteady laugh.
"You might have been killed!"
"Scarcely that. I tried to talk like they do in stories, with this
result. The maxim is, always strike first and question afterward. You
warn your father quietly while I hunt up Ferraud and Cathewe."
Seeing that he was really uninjured she turned and flew down the dark
corridor and knocked at her father's door.
Fitzgerald stumbled along toward M. Ferraud's room, murmuring: "All
right, Mr. Breitmann; all right. But hang me if I don't hand you back
that one with interest. Where the devil is that Frenchman?" as he
hammered on Ferraud's door and obtained no response. He tried the
knob. The door opened. The room was black, and he struck a match. M.
Ferraud, fully dressed, lay upon his bed. There was a handkerchief
over his mouth and his hands and feet were securely bound. His eyes
were open.
CHAPTER XXIII
CATHEWE ASKS QUESTIONS
The hunter of butterflies rubbed his released wrists and ankles, tried
his collar, coughed, and dropped his legs to the floor.
"I am getting old," he cried in self-communion; "near-sighted and old.
I've worn spectacles so long in jest that now I must wear them in
earnest."
"How long have you been here?" asked Fitzgerald.
"I should say about two hours. It was very simple. He came to the
door. I opened it. He came in. _Zut_! He is as powerful as a lion."
"Why didn't you call?"
"I was too busy, and suddenly it became too late. Gone?"
"Yes." And Fitzgerald swore as he rubbed the side of his head.
Briefly he related what had befallen him.
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