"Isn't that view lovely!" exclaimed Laura, as the _Capo di Rosso_ glowed in the sun with all the beauty of a fabulous ruby. "Are you afraid at all, Hildegarde?"
"No, Laura; I am only sad. I wish we were safely on the yacht. Yes, yes; I _am_ afraid, of something I know not what."
"I never dreamed that he could be dishonest. He was a gentleman, somewhere in his past. I do not quite understand it all. The money does not interest my father so much as the mere sport of finding it. You know it was agreed to divide, his share among the officers and seamen, and the balance to our guests. It would have been such fun."
And the woman who knew everything must perforce remain silent. With what eloquence she could have defended him!
"Do you think we shall find it?" wistfully.
"How can he find his way back without passing us?"
"For a desperate man who has thrown his all on this one chance, he will find a hundred ways of returning."
A carriage came round one of the pinnacled _calenches_. It was empty. M. Ferraud casually noted the number. He was not surprised. He had been waiting for this same vehicle. It was Breitmann's, but the man driving it was not the man who had driven it out of Ajaccio. He was an Evisan. A small butterfly fluttered alongside. M. Ferraud jumped out and swooped with his hat. He decided not to impart his discovery to the others. He was assured that the man from Evisa knew absolutely nothing, and that to question him would be a waste of time. At this very moment it was not unlikely that Breitmann and his confederate were crossing the mountains; perhaps with three or four sturdy donkeys, their panniers packed with precious metal. And the dupe would go straight to his fellow-conspirators and share his millions. Curious old world!
They saw Evisa at sunset, one of the seven glories of the earth. The little village rests on the side of a mountain, nearly three-thousand feet above the sea, the sea itself lying miles away to the west, V-shaped between two enormous shafts of burning granite. Even the admiral forgot his smoldering wrath.
The hotel was neat and cool, and all the cook had to do was to furnish dishes and hot water for tea. There was very little jesting, and what there was of it fell to the lot of Coldfield and the Frenchman. The spirit in them all was tense. Given his way, the admiral would have gone out that very night with lanterns.