tray, he, too, was pondering. But his German strain did not make it so
easy for him as for Fitzgerald to give concrete form to his thought.
The star, as he saw it, had a nebulous appearance.

M. Ferraud chatted gaily. Usually a man who holds his audience is of
single purpose. The little Frenchman had two aims: one, to keep the
conversation on subjects of his own selection, and the other, to study
without being observed. Among one of his own tales (butterflies) he
told of a chase he once had made in the mountains of the Moors, in
Abyssinia. To illustrate it he took up one of the nets standing in the
corner. In his excitable way he was a very good actor. And when he
swooped down the net to demonstrate the end of the story, it caught on
a button on Breitmann's coat.

"Pardon!" said M. Ferraud, with a blithe laugh. "The butterfly I was
describing was not so big."

Breitmann freed himself amid general laughter. And with Laura's rising
the little after-dinner party became disorganized.

It was yet early; but perhaps she had some thought she wished to be
alone with. This consideration was the veriest bud in growth; still,
it was such that she desired the seclusion of her room. She swung
across her shoulders the sleepy Angora and wished the men good night.


The wire bell in the hall clock vibrated twice; two o'clock of the
morning. A streak of moon-shine fell aslant the floor and broke off
abruptly. Before the safe in the library stood Breitmann, a small tape
in his hand. For several minutes he contemplated somberly the nickel