furniture; it was simple, substantial, decently old. On the plain
walls were some choice paintings. A landscape by Constable, a water
color by Fortuny, and a rough sketch by Détaille; and the inevitable
marines, such as one might expect in the house of a fighting sailor.
He examined these closely, and was rather pleased to find them valuable
old prints. And, better to his mind than all these, was the deft,
mysterious touch or suggestion of a woman's hand. He saw it in the
pillows on the lounge, in the curtains dropping from the windows, in
the counterpane on the old four-poster.

Did Americans usually house their private secretaries in rooms fit for
guests of long and intimate acquaintance? Ah, yes; this sailor was a
rich man; and this mansion had not been erected yesterday. It amused
him to think that these walls and richly polished floors were older
than the French revolution. It seemed incredible, but it was true.

"Pirates!" His laughter broke forth, not loudly but deeply, fired by a
broad and ready sense of humor--a perilous gift for a man who is
seeking fine hazards. It was droll, it was even fantastic. To cruise
about the world in search of pirate treasures, as if there remained a
single isle, shore, promontory, known to have been the haunt of
pirates, which had not been dug up and dug up again! And here, under
the very hand---- He struck his palms. "Why not?"

He ran to the window. The sleek white yacht lay tugging at her cables,
like an eager hound in the leash. "Seaworthy from stem to stern. Why
not? No better cloak than this. I may not make you a good secretary,
admiral; but, the gods propitious, I can, if needs say must, take you
treasure hunting. It will be a fine stroke. Is it possible that
fortune begins to smile on me at last? Well, I have had the patience