and fierce battles on land and sea. Never had any story-book opened a
like world. She felt a longing for the Himalayas, the Indian jungles,
the low-lying islands of the South Pacific.

So far as the admiral was concerned, he was very well pleased with the
new secretary.


Fitzgerald was not asleep. He had an idea, and he smoked his yellow
African gourd pipe till this same idea shaped itself into the form of a
resolve. He laid the pipe on the mantel, turned over the logs--for the
nights were yet chill, and a fire was a comfort--and raised a window.
He would like to hear some of that tapping in the chimney. He was
fully dressed, excepting that he had exchanged shoes for slippers.

He went out into the corridor. There was no light under Breitmann's
door. So much the better; he was asleep. Fitzgerald crept down the
stairs with the caution of a hunter who is trailing new game. As he
arrived at the turn of the first landing, he hesitated. He could hear
the old clock striking off the seconds in the lower hall. He cupped
his ear. By George! Joining the sharp monotony of the clock was
another sound, softer, intermittent. He was certain that it came from
the library. That door was never closed. Click-click! Click-click!
The mystery was close at hand.

He moved forward. He wanted to get as close as possible to the
fireplace. He peered in. The fire was all but dead; only the corner
of a log glowed dully. Suddenly, the glow died, only to reappear,
unchanged. This phenomena could be due to one thing, a passing of
something opaque. Fitzgerald had often seen this in camps, when some