“You, too?”

“Yes.  I think the time has come, for Mr. Ferraud to offer full explanations.”

The butterfly-hunter resumed his chair.  “They will remain or carry us on to Corte.  From there we can take the train back to Ajaccio, saving a day and a half.  Admiral, I have a confession to make.  It will surprise you, and I offer you my apologies at once.”  He paused.  He loved moments like this, when he could resort to the dramatic in perfect security. “I was the man in the chimney.”

The admiral gasped.  Laura dropped her hands to the table.  Cathewe sat back stiffly.  Coldfield stared.  Hildegarde shaded her face with the newspaper through which she had been idly glancing.

“Patience!” as the admiral made as though to press back his chair.  “Mr. Fitzgerald knew from the beginning.  Is that not true?”

“It is, Mr. Ferraud.  Go on.”

“Breitmann is the great-grandson of Napoleon.  By this time he is traveling over some mountain pass, with his inheritance snug under his hand.  You will ask, why all these subterfuges, this dodging in and out?  Thus.  Could I have found the secret of the chimney—­I worked from memory—­none of us would be here, and one of the great conspiracies of the time would have been nipped in the bud.  What do you think?  Breitmann proposes to go into France with the torch of anarchy in his hand; and if he does, he will be shot.  He proposes to divide this money among his companions, who, with their pockets full of gold, will desert him the day he touches France.  Do you recollect the scar on his temple?  It was not made by a saber; it is the mark of a bullet.  He received it while a correspondent in the Balkans.  Well, it left a mark on his brain also.  That is to say, he is conscious of what he does but not why he does it.  He is a sane man with an obsession.  This wound, together with the result of Germany’s brutal policy toward him and France’s indifference, has made him a kind of monomaniac.  You will ask why I, an accredited agent in the employ of France, have not stepped in and arrested him.  My evidence might bring him to trial, but it would never convict him.  Once liberated, he would begin all over again, meaning that I also would have to start in at a new beginning.  So I have let him proceed to the end, and in doing so I shall save him in spite of himself.  You see, I have a bit of sentiment.”

Hildegarde could have reached over and kissed his hand.

“Why didn’t he tell this to me?” cried the admiral.  “Why didn’t he tell me?  I would have helped him.”

“To his death, perhaps,” grimly.  “For the money was only a means, not an end.  The great-grandson of Napoleon:  well, he will never rise from his obscurity.  And sometime, when the clouds lift from his brain, he will remember me.  I have seen in your American cottages the motto hanging on the walls—­God Bless Our Home.  Mr. Breitmann will place my photograph beside it and smoke his cigarette in peace.”