"He comes from the outside, somewhere; from the cellar, probably. Let
us try the cellar." Breitmann urged this with a gesture of his hands.

"There'll be sport," said Fitzgerald.

The coffee was cold in the little cups when they returned to it. The
cellar, as far as any one could learn, was free from any signs of
recent invasion. It was puzzling.

"And the servants?" Breitmann intimated.

"They have been in the family for years." The admiral shook his head
convincedly. "I ask your pardon, my dear. My ears are not so keen as
might be. I'm an old blockhead to think that you were having an attack
of ghosts. But we'll solve the riddle shortly, and then we shan't have
any trouble with our alarm bells," with a significant glance at
Fitzgerald. "Well, Mr. Breitmann, suppose we take a look at the work?
Laura, you show Mr. Fitzgerald the gardens. The view from the terrace
is excellent."

Fine weather. The orchard was pink with apple blossoms, giving the far
end of the park a tint not unlike Sicilian almonds in bloom. And the
intermittent breeze, as it waned or strengthened, carried delicate
perfumes to and fro. Yon was the sea, with well-defined horizon, and
down below were the few smacks and the white yacht _Laura_, formally
bowing to one another, or tossing their noses impudently; and, far
away, was the following trail of brown smoke from some ship which had
dropped down the horizon.