The Admiral broke in: “Why, then we will let the matter drop just where it is; but Lieutenant Duquesne and myself will probably form an opinion as to the bravery of this member of the Corsican nobility, and we may express it to others. You might repeat to the Count what I have just said.”
Miss Helen Enright was both astute and acute. Her father knew that, if he left the hotel late in the evening and did not return until after midnight, he would be obliged to make some sort of an explanation to his daughter.
“Better tell a white lie than a black one,” said he to Victor. So it was arranged that they should pay a visit to the Osprey in the afternoon, giving Helen to understand that they might not return to the hotel until the next morning.
The night chosen was a stormy one. Heavy black clouds shut out the light of both moon and stars, and from them the rain descended. About eleven o’clock, the Lieutenant and the Admiral left the Osprey, preceded by a sailor carrying a ship’s lantern to light the way. When they had covered about half the distance between the vessel and the hotel, the Admiral, turning to the sailor, said:
“Give me the lantern, Markland. I will carry it the rest of the way. You can find your way back to the quay in the dark?”
“Aye, aye, sir!” was the response. “I have been in darker places than this and came out all right.”
The Admiral screened the lantern and waited at the corner of the road for Victor, who went to his room to obtain the axes. They then proceeded on their way towards the deserted building, the rain coming down in the proverbial torrents.
“I shall be much cut up,” said Victor, “if this wetting gives you a cold and an attack of rheumatism.”
“If you don’t get cut up,” said the Admiral, “I will try to bear the rheumatism with patience.”
“Thank you,” said Victor; “you have always been a kind and good friend to me. My course in this matter, no doubt, seems inexplicable to you, but I have a reason for it which, some day, I will explain.”