mountains. No task appeared visibly to weary this man. Small as he
was, his bones were as strong and his muscles as stringy as a wolf's.
If the butterfly was worth while he would follow till it fell to his
net or daylight withdrew its support. Never he lost patience, never
his smile faltered, never his mild spectacled eyes wavered. He was a
savant by nature; he was a secret agent by choice. Who knows anything
about rare butterflies appreciates the peril of the pursuit; one never
picks the going and often stumbles. He was a hunter of butterflies by
nature; but he possessed a something more than a mere smattering of
other odd crafts. He was familiar with precious gems, marbles he knew
and cameos; he could point out the weakness in a drawing, the false
effort in a symphony; he was something of mutual interest to every man
and woman he met.

So it fell out very well that Admiral Killigrew was fond of
butterflies. Still, he should have been equally glad to know that the
sailor's hobby inclined toward the exploits of pirates. M. Ferraud was
a modest man. That his exquisite brochure on lepidopterous insects was
in nearly all the public libraries of the world only gratified, but
added nothing to his vanity.

As it oftentimes happens to a man whose mind is occupied with other
things, the admiral, who received M. Ferraud in the library, saw
nothing in the name to kindle his recollection. He bade the savant to
be seated while he read the letter of introduction which had been
written by the secretary of the navy.


"MY DEAR KILLIGREW: