“My lad,” he said, quietly, “you were right.  Your master wants the purple cloak.  I was wrong.”

Without replying, Breton hung up the grey cloak and took down another.

“Is Monsieur le Vicomte seasick?” he asked.

“It is hunger, lad, which makes me pale.”

As the vicomte reappeared upon deck, he saw D’Herouville biting his nails.  He met the questioning glance, and laughed coldly and mirthlessly.

“Chevalier,” said the vicomte, “your lackey handed me the grey cloak first.”

“The grey cloak?”

“Yes; but I recalled its history, and returned with this.  Hang me, but you have a peculiar fancy.  In your place, I should have burned that cloak long ago.”

D’Herouville looked interested.

“I have a morbid fancy for that cloak,” returned the Chevalier.  “I want it always with me.  Murder will out, and that garment will some day . . .  No matter.”

“Have you ever searched the pockets?” asked D’Herouville, in a quiet, cool tone.

The vicomte’s eyes brightened.  There was good metal in this D’Herouville.

“Searched the pockets?” said the Chevalier.  “Not I!  I have not touched the cloak since I last wore it.  I never expect to touch it.  Vicomte, thank you for your trouble.”  The Chevalier threw the cloak around his shoulders and closed his eyes.  The wind, blowing forcefully and steadily into his face produced a drowsiness.

Du Puys looked from one to the other.  A grey cloak?  All this was outside the circle of his understanding.  When Victor returned the old soldier rose and made his way to the cabin.  As he disappeared, D’Herouville moved toward the wheel.  From time to time he looked back at the vicomte, but that gentleman purposely refused to acknowledge these glances.

“Chevalier,” he said, “you know why our poet here and myself are upon this ship:  a certain paper, ten by twelve inches, stands between us and the block.”

“Ah!” The Chevalier opened his eyes.

“Yes.  Has it ever occurred to you, my poet, to investigate Monsieur le Chevalier’s grey cloak; that is to say, search its pockets?”

Victor smothered an oath and thwacked his thigh.  “Horns of Panurge!” softly.

“Then you have not.  It would be droll if our salvation was accompanying us to the desert.”  The vicomte was up and heading toward D’Herouville.

“Victor, lad,” said the Chevalier, “go you and see if there is anything in the pockets of that grey cloak.”

“Well, Monsieur?” said D’Herouville, eagerly.

“There is a ghost upon the ship,” replied the vicomte.

“You have secured the papers?”

“Papers?” with elevated brows.  “Is there more than one, then?” the vicomte’s tone hardening.

“Paper or papers, it matters not; I was speaking only in a general way.”

“Do you recall that when I touched that cloak it gave forth a crackling sound as of paper?”