Second, that he had helped to cut off King Lewis' head; but nobody
could prove that. Third, that he was a retired pirate; but retired
pirates always wound up their days in riotous living, so this theory
died. Fourth, that he had been a great soldier in the Napoleonic wars,
and this version had some basis, as the old man's face was slashed and
cut, some of his fingers were missing, and he limped. Again, he had
been banished from France for a share in the Hundred Days. But, all
told, nothing was proved conclusively, though the villagers burrowed
and delved and hunted and pried, as villagers are prone to do when a
person appears among them and keeps his affairs strictly to himself.

But the next generation partly forgot, and the present only
indifferently remembered that, once upon a time, a French _emigré_ had
lived and died up there. They knew all there was to know about the
present owner. It was all compactly written and pictured in a book of
history, which book agents sold over the land, even here in Dalton.

All these things Fitzgerald and his companion learned from the driver
on the journey up the incline.

"Where was this Frenchman buried?" inquired Breitmann softly.

"In th' cemet'ry jest over th' hill. But nobody knows jest where he is
now. Stone's gone, an' th' ground's all level that end. He wus on'y a
Frenchman. But th' admiral, now you're talkin'! He pays cash, an'
don't make no bargain rates, when he wants a job done. Go wan, y' ol'
nag; what y' dreamin' of?"

"There might be history in that corner of the graveyard," said
Breitmann.