many things. But you?"

Fitzgerald spread his napkin over his knees. There was only one other
man breakfasting. He was a small, wiry person, white of hair, and
spectacled, and was at that moment curiously employed. He had pinned
to the table a small butterfly, yellow, with tiny dots on the wings.
He was critically inspecting his find through a jeweler's glass.

"I am visiting friends here," began Fitzgerald. "Rear Admiral
Killigrew was an old friend of my father's. I did not expect to
remain, but the admiral and his daughter insisted; so I am sending to
New York for my luggage, and will go up this morning." He saw no
reason for giving fuller details.

"So it must have been you who brought the admiral's note. It is fate.
Thanks. Some day that casual dinner may give you good interest"

The little man with the butterfly bent lower over his prize.

"Do you believe in curses?" asked Breitmann.

"Ordinary, every-day curses, yes; but not in Roman anathemas."

"Neither of those. I mean the curse that sometimes dogs a man, day and
night; the curse of misfortune. I was hungry that night in Paris; I
have been hungry many times since, I have held honorable places;
to-day, I become a servant at seventy-five dollars a month and my bread
and butter. A private secretary."

"But why aren't you with some newspaper?" asked Fitzgerald, breaking