Dawn was awake on the hills a mile away, and by and by Aleck found tongue to tell the story of the night, which was good for him.  He talked fast and unevenly, and even extravagantly.  Chamberlain listened and loved his friend in a sympathy that spoke for itself, though his words were commonplace enough.  By the time they had circled the five-mile road and were near the house again, Aleck was something like himself, though still unusually excited.  Chamberlain mentioned casually that Miss Reynier had been anxious about him, and that all his friends at the big hotel had worried.  Finally, he, Chamberlain, had set out for the old red house, thinking he could possibly be of service; in any case glad to be near his friend.

“And, by the way,” Chamberlain added; “you may be interested to hear that accidentally I got on the track of that beggar who ate the hermit’s eggs.  Took a tramp this morning, and found him held up at a kind of sailor’s inn, waiting for money.  Grouchy old party; no wonder his men shipped him.”

Aleck at first took but feeble interest in Chamberlain’s discoveries; he was still far from being his precise, judicial self.  He let Chamberlain talk on, scarcely noticing what he said, until suddenly the identity of the man whom Chamberlain was describing came home to him.  Agatha’s story flashed back in his memory.  He stopped short in his tracks, halting his companion with a stretched-out forefinger.

“Look here, Chamberlain,” he said, “I’ve been half loony and didn’t take in what you said.  If that’s the owner or proprietor of the Jeanne D’Arc—­a man known as Monsieur Chatelard, French accent, blond, above medium size, prominent white teeth—­we want him right away.  He kidnapped Miss Redmond in New York, and I shouldn’t wonder if he kidnapped old Jim and stole the yacht besides.  He’s a bad one.”

Mr. Chamberlain had the air of humoring a lunatic.  “Well, what’s to be done?  Is it a case for the law?  Is there any evidence to be had?”

“Law!  Evidence!” cried Aleck.  “I should think so.  You go to Big Simon, Chamberlain, and find out who’s sheriff, and we’ll get a warrant and run him down.  Heavens!  A man like that would sell his mother!”

Chamberlain looked frankly skeptical, and would not budge until Aleck had related every circumstance that he knew about Agatha’s involuntary flight from New York.  He was all for going to the red house and interviewing Agatha herself, but Aleck refused to let him do that.

“She’s worn out and gone to bed; you can’t see her.  But it’s straight, you take my word.  We must catch that scoundrel and bring him here for identification—­to be sure there’s no mistake.  And if it is he, it’ll be hot enough for him.”

Chamberlain doubted whether it was the same man, and put up objections seriatim to each proposition of Aleck’s, but finally accepted them all.  He made a point, however, of going on his quest alone.