wars and political squabbles. Yes, where were his newspapers? Had he
tried New York? If not, in that case, he--Fitzgerald--could be of some
solid assistance. And Cathewe knew him, or had met him.

Fitzgerald had buffeted the high and low places; he seldom made
mistakes in judging men offhand, an art acquired only after many
initial blunders. This man Breitmann was no sham; he was a scholar, a
gentleman, a fine linguist, versed in politics and war. Well, the
little mystery would be brushed aside in the morning. Breitmann would
certainly recognize him.

But to have forgotten the girl! To have permitted a course of events
to discover her! Shameful! He jumped into bed, and pulled the
coverlet close to his nose, and was soon asleep, sleep broken by
fantastic dreams, in which the past and present mixed with the
improbable chances of the future.

Thump-thump, thump-thump! To Fitzgerald's fogged hearing, it was like
the pulse beating in the bowels of a ship, only that it stopped and
began at odd intervals, intermittently. At the fourth recurrence, he
sat up, to find that it was early morning, and that the sea lay; gray
and leaden, under the pearly haze of dawn. Thump-thump! He rubbed his
eyes, and laughed. It could be no less a person than the old sailor in
the summer-yachting toggery. Drat 'em! These sailors were always
trying to beat sun-up. At length, the peg left the room above, and
banged along the hall and bumped down the stairs. Then all became
still once more, and the listener snuggled under the covers again, and
slept soundly till eight. Outside, the day was full, clear, and windy.

On the way to the dining-room, he met the man. The scars were a little