"Lost his balance?" muttered Fitzgerald. "He looks groggy. Why?"

This was not a time for speculation. All rushed after the admiral, who
laid the case on his desk, and took out his keys. None of them would
turn in the ancient lock. With an impatient gesture, which escaped the
others, the secretary seized Mr. Donovan's hammer, inserted the claw
between the lock and the catch, and gave a powerful wrench. The lid
fell back, crooked and scarred.

The admiral put on his Mandarin spectacles. With his hands behind his
back, he bent and critically examined the contents. Then, very
carefully, he extracted a packet of papers, yellow and old, bound with
heavy cording. Beneath this packet was a medal of the Legion of Honor,
some rose leaves, and a small glove.

"Know what I think?" said the admiral, stilling the shake in his voice.
"This belonged to that mysterious Frenchman who lived here eighty years
ago. I'll wager that medal cost some blood. By cracky, what a find!"

"And the poor little glove and the rose leaves!" murmured the girl, in
pity. "It seems like a crime to disturb them."

"We shan't, my child. Our midnight friend wasn't digging yonder for
faded keepsakes. These papers are the things." The admiral cut the
string, and opened one of the documents. "H'm! Written in French. So
is this," looking at another, "and this. Here, Laura, cast your eye
over these, and tell us why some one was hunting for them."

Fitzgerald eyed Breitmann thoughtfully. The whole countenance of the