Captain Francis Newcombe, a bandage swathing his head from the tip of his nose upward, groped out with his hand for a glass that stood on the bedside table, succeeded only in upsetting it, and swore savagely under his breath. At the same moment, he heard the front door of his apartment open and close.  
"Runnells!" he shouted irritably. "D'ye hear, Runnells? Come here!"
 
A footstep came hurriedly along the hall, and the door of the bedroom opened.
 
Paul Cremarre stood on the threshold.
 
"It is not Runnells," said the Frenchman, staring at the bed. "I used my key. I saw Runnells and another man go out a few minutes ago."
 
"You, Paul!" exclaimed Captain Francis Newcombe quickly. "I did not expect you to return from France until to-morrow. I thought Runnells had forgotten something and come back. That was the doctor with him. Runnells has gone out for supplies. They've only just brought me back from Cloverley's this morning, and the place here was pretty well cleaned out of necessities."
 
The Frenchman moved over to the bedside, and grasped Captain Francis Newcombe's hand.
 
"Monsieur," he said earnestly, "I am desolated to see you like this. How am I to tell you of my gratitude? How am I to tell you what I owe you? We would have been caught. In two or three more little minutes, Runnells and I would have been pouf!"
 
"That seemed rather obvious," said Captain Francis Newcombe dryly.
 
"Bon Dieu!" ejaculated the Frenchman. "Yes! I heard from Runnells, of course—the whole story in code. There is only one man who would have done that. I, Paul Cremarre, will never forget it. Never! And I say again that I am desolated to see you like this. Runnells said your eyes were very badly injured."
 
"That is Runnells' lack of balance in the use of English," said the ex-captain of territorials. "There is nothing whatever the matter with my eyes. If I am blind for the moment, it is because my eyelids are kept shut by some damned medical method of torture, and because of this bandage. When I took a header into the broken windshield, I got a bit of a cut that beginning with the bridge of my nose had a go straight across on each side just under the eyebrows. They've made a bit of a fuss over it, wouldn't let me come home until now, and I must still be tucked up in bed, but—"
 
"It is more than you make out," said the Frenchman gravely. "I know that. But that your eyes are saved—that is luck!"
 
"Quite so!" Captain Francis Newcombe shrugged his shoulders. "And you?—speaking of luck."
 
"The best!" replied the Frenchman in a low, quick tone. "Père Mouche has had his rago?t, and afterwards another that was so hot that—would you believe it?—it melted the dishes. And, besides, he has had a stroke of good fortune in getting rid of some other stock, a lot of it, on the continent. There will be a nice bank account in a day or so—to-morrow, if you want any." His voice grew suddenly less buoyant. "But just the same, it is well that we are taking a holiday. It has caused a furor. The papers, the Earl, Scotland Yard—how they buzz! And the Prefecture more suspicious than ever! Your English journals are like spoiled children. They will not stop crying, and they are very bad tempered about it. This morning, for instance. I have one here. Shall I read to you what it says?"
 
"Good heavens—no!" expostulated Captain Francis Newcombe hastily. "Everybody from the Earl down to Runnells has read that stuff to me for a week! If you want to do anything that smacks of intelligence you can get me another drink in place of the one I knocked over when you came in—you know where the Scotch is; and if you want to do any reading see if there is any mail for me. I mentioned letters but the doctor said no. However, the doctor is gone, so look on the desk in the living room."
 
"All right," said the Frenchman, as he turned briskly away. "Un petit coup is decidedly in order this morning. I will have one with you."
 
He was back presently from his errand. He filled the glasses, and placed one in Captain Francis Newcombe's hand.
 
"Salut, mon capitaine!" he said. "Here's to the cash the little Père Mouche is getting ready for us—a fat, a very nice fat little dividend!"
 
"Good!" said the ex-captain of territorials. "How about the mail? Any letters?"
 
"I've got them here," Paul Cremarre answered. "There were only three."
 
"Well, what are they?" demanded Captain Francis Newcombe.
 
The Frenchman examined the first of the letters in his hand.
 
"A city letter from Hipplewaite, Jones & Simpkins, Solicitors—"
 
Captain Francis Newcombe chuckled.
 
"That's about a hen Runnells ran over a month or so ago. Extremely valuable fowl! Poultry show stock, and all that, you know. What has the price risen to now?"
 
Paul Cremarre tore the letter open.
 
"Two pounds, ten and six," he said.
 
"Still much too cheap!" grinned Captain Francis Newcombe. "The man is simply robbing himself. Chuck it away before Runnells sees it. He could have settled for a pound three weeks ago. What's next?"
 
The Frenchman examined another envelope.
 
"City letter again," he said. "From 'The Sabbath House.'"
 
"Ah, yes!" said Captain Francis Newcombe gravely. "Most worthy object. Gave 'em ten quid last month. A mission down in Whitechapel, you know. Elevation of the unelevated, and all that. Shocking conditions! I must see that your name goes on that list."
 
"Shall I tear it up?" drawled the Frenchman.
 
"Yes," said Captain Newcombe.
 
The Frenchman remained silent for a moment.
 
"Well?" prompted the ex-captain of territorials. "You said there were three."
 
"I have put the other on the table beside you," said the Frenchman. "It is intime. The stamp from America. The handwriting of a lady. You will read it yourself when you are able."
 
"Able!" echoed Captain Francis Newcombe, with sudden asperity. "I won't be able to do anything for another week, let alone read. Open it! You know damned well it's only from my ward in America. And since I'm going out there as soon as I'm fit again, I'm rather keen to know what her immediate plans are. She was going to a school friend's home for the summer. I've explained to you before that her mother did a rather big thing for me once, and I'm trying to repay the debt. Open it, and read it to me. There's nothing private about it."
 
"But, certainly!" agreed the Frenchman, as he opened the letter. "It is only that you are both young, and that the thought crossed my mind you—"
 
"Read the letter!" snapped Captain Francis Newcombe. "If there's any enclosure for her mother, you can lay that aside."
 
"There is no enclosure," returned the Frenchman good-humouredly. "Well, then, listen! I read:
 
The Corals,
Manwa Island, Florida Keys,
Tuesday, June 30th.
DEAR GUARDY:
 
You knew, of course, I was going to visit Dora Marlin and her father, Mr. Jonathan P. Marlin, this summer, so you won't be altogether surprised at the above address. You see, we came here a little sooner than I expected, so that your last letter, forwarded on from New York, has just reached me.
 
I am wild with delight to know that you have decided to come out to America for a visit. I showed your letter at once to Dora and Mr. Marlin, and they absolutely insist that you come here as their guest. You will, won't you? You old dear! You'll have to, else you won't see me—so there! You see, we're on an island in the Florida Keys, and it's ever so far from the mainland, and there's no other place on it to stay except with us. I wonder, I wonder if you'll know me? I'm not the little Polly I was, you know.
 
Oh, guardy, it's simply wonderful here! The house is really a castle, and it's built mostly of coral, and is so pretty; and the foliage is a dream—the whole island, and it's really an awfully big one, is just like a huge garden. And, too, it's just like a little world all of your own. The servants are mostly negroes, with pickaninnies running around, and they live in jolly little bungalows, ever and ever so many of them, that peep out of the trees at you everywhere you go. And then there is the aquarium. It's Mr. Marlin's hobby. I couldn't begin to describe it. I never knew such beautiful and wonderful and queer creatures existed in the sea.
 
Dora's a dear, of course. I'm sure you'll lose your heart to her at once. And I've already grown so fond of Mr. Marlin, and the more so, perhaps, because Dora is frightfully worried about him. I am afraid there is something very serious the matter with his mind, though a great deal of the time he appears to be quite normal. I don't understand it, of course, because it is all about the financial conditions in the world; but anyway—
 
 
Paul Cremarre stopped reading aloud abruptly. There was a moment of silence while his eyes swept swiftly on to the end of the paragraph.
 
"Well?" inquired Captain Francis Newcombe. "What's the matter? Have you lost your place?"
 
The Frenchman drew in his breath sharply.
 
"Bon Dieu!" he exclaimed excitedly. "Listen to this! It is the lamp of Aladdin! It is the Isle of Croesus! We are rich! It is superb! It is magnificent! Listen! I read again:
 
 
—he has a great sum of money in banknotes here; half a million dollars, he said. He showed it to me. It was hard to believe there was so much. Why, you could just make a little bundle of it and put it under your arm. I asked him why he had it here, and he patted it and smiled at me, and told me it was the only safe thing to do. And then he tried to explain a lot of things to me about money that I couldn't understand at all.
 
 
Paul Cremarre looked up, and waved the letter about jubilantly.
 
"Yes, yes!" he cried. "I am awake! See! I pinch myself! It is amazing! In banknotes! In American money! That is valuable, eh? And a little bundle that one could put under one's arm!"
 
Captain Francis Newcombe's lips were a straight line under the bandages.
 
"I'm afraid I don't get the point," he said coldly.
 
"The point!" Paul Cremarre's face was flushed now, his eyes burned with excitement. "But, sacre nom, the point is—a half million dollars in cash. And so easy! It is ours for the taking. The man is—ha, ha!—yes, I learned something in the war from the Americans—he is what they call a nut!" He tapped his forehead. "And from the nut we extract the kernel! Yes?"
 
"I think not!" said Captain Francis Newcombe evenly.
 
"Heh?" The Frenchman stared incredulously. "But it must be that you joke—a little joke of exquisite irony. Yes, of course; for what could be better—or suit us better? We were about to lay low for a while because it was becoming too hot for us on this side of the water—and, presto, like a gift of the gods, there immediately awaits us fortune on the other side!"
 
Captain Francis Newcombe suddenly thrust out a clenched hand toward the other.
 
"No!" he said in a low voice.
 
"Bon Dieu!" gasped the Frenchman helplessly. "But I do not understand."
 
"Then I'll try to make it plain," said Captain Francis Newcombe in level tones. "There are limits to what even I will do, and it is well over that limit here. To go there as a guest of—"
 
"Monsieur was a guest, I understand, of the Earl of Cloverley a few days ago," interrupted the Frenchman quickly.
 
"Yes!" said Captain Francis Newcombe tersely. "And the guest before that of many others. But I did not have a ward to consider upon whose reputation I was to trade, and which I would wreck. Do you understand that?"
 
"Damn!" said the Frenchman. "There is always a woman! Damn all women, I say!"
 
"You may damn them as much as you please," said Captain Francis Newcombe, a grim savagery in his voice; "but there'll be none of that sort of thing here. And you keep your hands off! Do you also understand that? There's going to be one decent thing in my life!" He stretched out his clenched hand again. "Curse these bandages! I wish I could see your face! But I tell you now that if any attempt is made to get that money I'll crush you with as little compunction as I would crush a snake. Is that plain?"
 
"But, monsieur—monsieur!" protested the Frenchman. "That is enough! Why should you say such things to me? I am distressed. And it is not just. You asked me to read a letter, and I read it. That was not my fault. And surely it was but natural, what I said. Has it not been our business to do that sort of thing together? I did not know how you felt about this. But now that I know it is at an end. I have forgotten it, my friend. It is as though it had never been."
 
"All right, then!" said the ex-captain of territorials in a softer tone. "As you say, that ends it."
 
"Shall I go on with the letter?" asked the Frenchman pleasantly.
 
"No," said Captain Francis Newcombe. "Give it to me. I've had enough of it for now." He smiled suddenly, as the Frenchman placed the letter in his hand. "I'm afraid I'm a bit off colour this morning, Paul. Sorry! The trip down from Cloverley's has done me in a bit, and my eyes hurt like hell. I'd give a hundred pounds for a few good hours of sleep."
 
"Try, then," suggested the Frenchman. "I'll be where I can hear you if you want anything. I won't go out until Runnells gets back."
 
"Good enough!" agreed Captain Francis Newcombe; and then abruptly, as the Frenchman rose from his chair: "Speaking of Runnells, Paul—you will oblige me by saying nothing to him of the contents of this letter."
 
"I will say nothing to any one, let alone Runnells," replied the Frenchman quietly. "It is already forgotten. Call, if you want anything."
 
"I will," said Captain Francis Newcombe.
 
The Frenchman's footsteps died away in an outer room.
 
Captain Francis Newcombe's fingers tightened around the letter he held in his hand, crushed it, and carefully smoothed it out again. He lay there motionless then, his face turned away from the door, his lips thinned, his under jaw outthrust a little.
 
"Three years in the planting!" he muttered to himself. "It has ripened well! Very well! Paul—bah! What does it matter, after all, that he read the letter? I am not sure but that he has already outlived his usefulness—and Runnells too!" He thrust the letter suddenly underneath his pillow. "Damn the infernal pain!" he gritted between his teeth. "If I could only sleep for a bit—sleep—sleep!"
 
And for a time he tossed restlessly from side to side, and then presently he slept.
 
 
Runnells, in response to a demand from the bedroom, brought in the luncheon tray.
 
"You've had a rare whack of sleep," he said, as he laid the tray down on the table beside the bed.
 
"What time is it?" inquired Captain Francis Newcombe.
 
"Three o'clock," said Runnells. "Here, sit up a bit, and I'll bolster the pillows in behind you."
 
"Where's Paul?" asked the ex-captain of territorials.
 
Runnells did not answer immediately. In arranging the pillows he had found a letter. He looked at it coolly. It ought to be worth looking at if Captain Francis Newcombe kept it under his pillow.
 
"Well?" snapped the ex-captain of territorials.
 
Runnells placed the letter on the table within easy reach beside the tray, pulled the table a little closer, and sat down on the edge of the bed.
 
"He went out after I got back," said Runnells. "Said he'd sleep here to-night, that's all I know. This is a bit of stew."
 
Runnells, with one hand presented a forkful of meat to Captain Francis Newcombe's lips, and with the other hand possessed himself of the letter again.
 
Runnells read steadily now. He conveyed food to Captain Francis Newcombe's mouth mechanically.
 
"Damn it!" spluttered the ex-captain of territorials suddenly. "Do you take me for a boa constrictor? I can't bolt food as fast as that!"
 
Runnells' eyes were curiously, feverishly alight.
 
"Yesterday you said I went too slow," he mumbled.
 
"In a great many respects, Runnells," said Captain Francis Newcombe tartly, "you are an irritating, tactless ass. But not to be too hard on you, and especially in view of the last week, I have to admit you possess one redeeming feature that I am bound to give you credit for."
 
"What's that?" Runnells was at the end of the letter now. He stared at the bandaged face with eyes a little narrowed, and with lips that twisted in a strange, speculative smile.
 
"A fidelity of the same uninitiative quality that a dog has," said Captain Francis Newcombe, motioning for more to eat. "And in that sphere you're a success. I hope you'll always stick to it."
 
Runnells made no answer. His eyes were on the letter again—re-reading it.
 
The lunch proceeded in silence.
 
At its conclusion, Runnells stood up, slipped the letter behind the pillow again, and gathered the various dishes together on the tray.
 
"America, eh?" confided Runnells to himself, as he carried the tray from the room. "So that's the bit of all right, is it? And Paul don't know anything about it! And the captain don't know—I know! Half a million dollars! Strike me pink!"