"What, and ruin him morally as well as politically? No, Laura; with money he might become a menace."
"On the contrary," put in M. Ferraud; "with money he might be made to put away his mad dream. But I'm afraid that my story has made you all gloomy."
"It has made me sad," Laura admitted. "Think of the struggle, the self-denial, and never a soul to tell him he is mad."
The scars faded a little, but Breitmann's eyes never wavered.
"The man hasn't a ghost of a chance." To Fitzgerald it was now no puzzle why Breitmann's resemblance to some one else had haunted him. He was rather bewildered, for he had not expected so large an order upon M. Ferraud's promise. "Fifty years ago. . ."
"Ah! Fifty years ago," interrupted M. Ferraud eagerly, "I should have thrown my little to the cause. Men and times were different then; the world was less sordid and more romantic."
"Well, I shall always hold that we have no right to that treasure."
"Fiddlesticks, Laura! This is no time for sentiment. The questions buzzing in my head are: Does this man know of the treasure's existence? Might he not already have put his hand upon it?"
"Your own papers discredit that supposition," replied Cathewe. "A stunning yarn, and rather hard to believe in these skeptical times. What is it?" he asked softly, noting the dead white on Hildegarde's cheeks.
"Perhaps it is the smoke," she answered with a brave attempt at a smile.