Although the spring was well advanced, a bright fire burned in the room where Mr. John Castlemaine ushered his guests. Several easy chairs were placed around the fire. Evidently Mr. Castlemaine used this room as a kind of smoking lounge, although there were also evidences that it was not used for men exclusively.

They had scarcely seated themselves, when a servant entered, bearing cigars and a decanter containing spirits.

"You will take a little whisky, Signor Ricordo?" said Mr. Castlemaine, turning to his guest.

"No, thank you, I never take whisky."

"You are an abstainer?"

"Yes."

There was a strange tone in his voice, but he spoke very quietly, as was his custom.

"Ah, perhaps you are a Mohammedan," said Sprague, who accepted Mr. Castlemaine's invitation.

"No, Mr. Sprague, I am not a Mohammedan, as you understand it. I do not take whisky because—well, because a man who was once my friend was ruined through it."

At that moment Olive entered the room, and took a chair close by her father's. She had heard Ricordo's answer to Sprague.

"That's scarcely a reason for refusing a harmless beverage," said Sprague.

"Harmless?" said Ricordo; "well, that is surely a matter of opinion."

"One would have to give up everything in life, on that principle of argument," urged Sprague.

"I do not wish to argue," said Ricordo, "but I will put a case to Mr. Castlemaine. Suppose he had a friend for whom he cared greatly, or for whom some one dear to him cared greatly, and that friend were ruined through alcohol; suppose he ceased to be a man and became a fiend through it, would he offer whisky to his guests?"

Signor Ricordo put the question to his host; but he kept his eyes on Olive, who started as if she had been stung, and then became as pale as death.

John Castlemaine laughed uneasily.

"You are almost as strong in your hatred of alcohol as my daughter, signore," he said. "Personally, I am a very abstemious man. I have closed nearly every public-house on the estate; but I remember my duties as a host."

Ricordo did not reply, but Olive felt how illogical her father's position was.

"But you smoke," went on Mr. Castlemaine, passing him a box of cigars. "I don't think these are bad."

"I am sure they are excellent," said Ricordo, "but I am obliged to smoke only one brand. I had to pay a heavy duty to bring a sufficient stock with me, but I had either to do it, or give up smoking. You will not mind if I smoke this, instead of yours, which I have no doubt are very much better."

"Oh, certainly not, if you wish," said Mr. Castlemaine rather coldly.

Ricordo bowed, and lit a cigar which he had taken from his own case. His refusal either to take whisky or to smoke his host's cigars had caused a feeling of restraint in the party.

"My cigars are a special brand," went on Ricordo. "They are no better than others, I suppose, but I can smoke no others. I imagine the constitution of the Easterns must be peculiar."

He looked at Olive as he spoke, and noted that she was watching him. As their eyes met, she dropped hers. She had not spoken since she entered the room.

"The manners and customs of those who live in the East are, of course, very different from ours. And of course their ideas are different too."

"How so, signore?"

He lay back in his chair as he spoke, and closed his eyes, as one who is enjoying a lazy contentment.

"Well, I suppose their ideas of hospitality are different. I have been told that they will never partake of the fare of an enemy."

"Is not that right?"

"Then again, of course their customs are different, I suppose. They are allowed a plurality of wives."

"And as a consequence many fail to marry at all."

"You seem to speak feelingly," laughed Sprague.

"Oh no, I assure you. I simply state a fact. For example, here am I, who can no longer be called a boy, and who am an Eastern, am also a celibate."

"You have never been married?"

"Never."

"Well," said Sprague, "there is nothing so wonderful in that. I am no longer a boy, and I have never married."

"You make one curious," said Ricordo.

"How?"

"One would like to know why you, Mr. Sprague, who are evidently a domestic kind of man, have never married."

"I will tell you on one condition."

"And that?"

"That you will tell me why you never married."

"I accept."

"Then I have never married because the only woman I ever wanted refused to have me."

"And I have refrained from getting married because I am afraid."

"Afraid?"

"Exactly."

"Of what?"

"Of many things, signore, many things."

"You make me curious to know what those things are."

"To tell you would be to tell the story of another man's life," replied Signor Ricordo gravely. "As you remarked, I am an Eastern, but we Easterns are not different from the Westerns in that direction. All of us have a secret chamber in our lives."

"Still," urged Sprague, "I cannot conceive of you, signore, being afraid of anything."

"I am not often in a communicative mood," said Ricordo; "I think I am to-night. Perhaps it is because I have received so much kindness. I am profoundly impressed," and here he bowed to Mr. Castlemaine and Olive, "by the fact that I, an alien, am received into the home of a representative of what is regarded as a proud and exclusive race. Never can I forget such hospitality. But one thing keeps me from communicating my thoughts: I would not willingly give pain to the signorina."

"To me, Signor Ricordo?" said Olive. "Pray, how am I concerned?"

"Directly not at all; but, as every woman is a champion of her sex, a great deal. And I would not desire even to suggest a thought that would seem to reflect on the sex to which the signorina adds so much lustre."

"But surely I am not responsible for my sex, signore," said Olive, with a laugh. Again he had cast a kind of spell on her, and she wanted to hear what he had to say.

"Ah well, then, let me be communicative," said Ricordo. "I said I had never married because I was afraid. I told the truth. Forgive me if I seem sentimental; but once, years ago—ah, how many I do not like to think—I might have yielded to love. Others had done so, and why not I? But I had a friend, a man whom I loved beyond all others. For years we had been more than brothers, his thoughts were mine, and mine were his. Then he fell in love with a woman, beautiful, and true, and good—at least, so we believed. She became his lode-star, his hope, his joy, and I naturally became as nothing to him. I did not grow angry at that. My only desire was that he should be happy, and as he found happiness in her love, what was I? He was not an angel, not altogether a good man, and often in my love for him I tried to reclaim him; I failed; but where I failed this woman succeeded. Ah, great Allah! how he loved her! He became her slave, and yet I rejoiced because she was lifting him to heaven. He was on his way to becoming a great man in the East, and then—this woman, because of some imperfection in his past—what do you call it?—jilted him. My friend was an intense kind of man. He had given his hope, his faith, his love, to this woman, and then, without giving him an opportunity of explaining himself, she threw him aside with scorn. Did he deserve her scorn? This I know, my poor friend, the byword of those who knew him, overwhelmed with a hopeless passion, thrown on the sea of life without anchor or rudder, drifted. Where? Ah, that is a story I cannot tell. But this woman, who might have been his salvation, and who professed to return his love, sent him into regions more terrible than ever your Milton, or our Italian Dante, saw with the eyes of vision."

"And where is he now?" asked Sprague.

"Where? That I cannot tell you. For a time I followed him, watched him, as he sank deeper and deeper into the pit. I stood upon the brink and looked in; but he had neither the strength nor the will to grasp my hand, and if he had, I should not have been strong enough to have pulled him out."

"And the woman?" asked Sprague.

"The woman is, I believe, meditating marriage with some one else. A common story, I know. Perhaps you could tell similar ones; perhaps, too, the commonness of such stories makes me afraid."

He was sitting back in his chair as he spoke. His eyes were half closed and he lazily smoked his cigar. Nevertheless, Olive thought he was watching her furtively. But perhaps that was because his story aroused memories which made the past live again.

From this time the conversation drifted on to other subjects, and Signor Ricordo made himself vastly agreeable. Without in any degree monopolising the conversation, he became the centre of interest. He showed that, although an Eastern, he was acquainted with English literature, and although he spoke English with a peculiar intonation, he expressed his thoughts with great clearness. Olive said but little. The story he had told contained such a meaning for her, that she had no desire to speak; nevertheless, she listened eagerly to his every word. Besides, his presence continued to have a kind of fascination for her. Why, she could not tell, yet when he rose to take his leave, she felt that everything would seem tame and commonplace after he had gone.

Mr. Castlemaine again pressed refreshments upon him; but again he refused to take them. It is true that he refused with a great show of courtesy, but he seemed determined to partake of nothing which the house could offer.

"I am afraid you are thinking of my sad story," he said, turning to Olive as he was on the point of saying good-night. "Of course you English have different thoughts and customs from the Easterns; still, I would like to ask you a question, if I might."

"Certainly," replied Olive, trying to appear cheerful.

"Do you think my friend would be justified in seeking revenge on the woman who sent him to despair, and worse than death?"

"I do not know all the circumstances, signore," she replied, "neither do I think that revenge is ever justifiable."

"Ah, no. You believe in the teaching of the Founder of your religion, 'love your enemies,' eh? But if you knew, signorina, if you knew!"

"The woman may be suffering more than you think."

"Suffering! Ah, I have seen her. Her life is one long song. She is careless, she has a life full of pleasure. Her admirers throng around her. She professes to be a Christian, too, and goes to church; but she thinks not of the poor soul wandering in blackest night. But I think he would be justified in seeking revenge."

"What revenge?" asked Olive. "What kind of revenge could he take?"

"I have thought of that, signorina, and I cannot think what it should be. She is to all appearances beyond his reach. She is rich, powerful, petted, courted; while he—ah, if I only knew where he was! Yet sometimes I think he must be planning his revenge. It would be better for her if he had died. For, if he does take revenge, it will be sure, and the torture will be exquisite."

"Perhaps he loves her still."

"Loves her! No, he hates her with all the madness with which he loved her. His passion of love has turned to bitterness, to wormwood. That is why I think his degradation and despair will drive him to revenge. I am glad I am in a Christian country, where the vendetta is not known. Good-night, signorina."

"Did you notice, Olive, that he refused to partake of any form of refreshment?" said John Castlemaine to his daughter, after Sprague and Ricordo had gone.

"Yes," said Olive; "but then I am told that people from the East seldom drink spirits. I am sorry you asked him."

"He's a remarkable kind of man."

"Yes."

"Do I know whom you are thinking of, Olive?"

She nodded her head.

"He reminds me of him, too. Sometimes I fancied I heard him speaking. Still, that is of course pure fancy. Olive, when are you going to forget him?"

"I don't know."

"I was hoping that he had passed out of your life."

"I thought he had, but that man's story seemed to bring everything back."

"I confess he made me feel uncomfortable. Still, he is a most entertaining man, and his position and rank are unquestionable. He belongs to a firm which rules the trade of the East, and he must be highly connected, or he would never have been admitted into partnership. We must invite him here to some social function before he leaves. You would like it, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," said Olive, "he's a most entertaining man. By all means let us invite him."

Meanwhile Ricordo and Sprague walked back to The Homestead, and as they walked they talked business. Sprague could not help feeling astonishment at Ricordo's knowledge of English commercial life, and entered into a discussion concerning its position and prospects with great eagerness. By the time they reached the house, Sprague had revealed to the stranger many particulars concerning his own relations with the commercial world.

The next day, without having given any warning to any one concerning his intention, Ricordo went to London, where he stayed several days. He had retained his rooms at The Homestead, however, and told the lady who had the management of it that he might return at any time. While in London, his time seemed very fully occupied, and he had long interviews with men occupying high positions in the commercial world. He also invested largely, and took part in far-reaching transactions. At the end of a few days he returned to Vale Linden again.

"It is simply a matter of time now," he said to himself, as the train swept on towards the south. "I have my hands on all the strings, and I have enveloped him as the proverbial spider envelops the proverbial fly. Whatever he does, he cannot escape. As for her——"

He sat back in the railway carriage, and apparently fell into deep thought. To the casual observer he seemed a prosperous Eastern gentleman, one whose whole demeanour and appearance suggested a man of rank and power. The close observer, however, would have detected a cruel smile beneath his black moustache, while in his eyes he would have seen a look that suggested dark deeds. The face would have impressed him with the suggestion of an indomitable will, and of a kind of imperious pride, but there was no suggestion of mercy or pity to be seen there.

When he arrived at Vale Linden, however, he had assumed his old manner of cynical melancholy, and he met the people he knew with the easy grace peculiar to him.

"We have missed you sorely," said Sprague, as he sat beside him at dinner; "in fact, all of us have wondered where you have been."

"Ah, Signor Sprague, where could one go in England, except to London? I have had affairs there. Usually I do not trouble about these things, but at times fits of industry come upon me."

"Ah, yes. I have heard that you are a partner in the great Tripoli Company. I had no idea I had made the acquaintance of one who practically rules the trade of the East."

"One is not in the habit of publishing one's position from the housetops," replied Ricordo.

"Oh no, of course not. Are you staying much longer?"

"Possibly; I do not know. I have come back for some more golf."

"Shall we have our match to-morrow?" asked Sprague. "I have been playing a good game while you have been away."

"I will tell you in the morning," replied the other. "Have you been up to the great house since I left?"

"No. I have seen Miss Castlemaine, though. She was on the golf links to-day."

Ricordo's eyes lit up with satisfaction, although he said nothing; but soon after dinner he left the house, and walked towards Olive Castlemaine's home. He had barely left the village when he saw Olive coming out of a cottage. He half lifted his fez, and bowed.

"May I make a confession, Miss Castlemaine?" he asked.

"Why not, if it is not of a serious nature?" responded Olive. There was a look of pleased expectancy in her eyes as she saw him.

"Then I was on the point of going to your house."

"You wished to see father. I am sure he will be pleased. I am just going home."

"And may I walk back with you?"

"Certainly, if you care to."

"I was not going to see your father, Miss Castlemaine."

"No?"

"No, I was going to see you. Do you know I have been playing golf since I came to England?"

"Yes, I heard that you performed wonders on our links. As you will remember, I saw you there."

"And I have heard that you are great at the game. I have had the audacity to wonder if you would play with me to-morrow morning. I can assure you it would be an act of charity towards a lonely man if you would."

"I am afraid, from what I have heard of your prowess, I should scarcely be able to give you a game, but if you will condescend so far I will do my best."

"Thank you, you are very kind. Indeed, every one is kind to me. I have been away to London for only a few days, and yet Mr. Sprague met me as though I were an old friend. It is pleasant to have a welcome in a strange land."

He seemed in a gay mood during the remainder of their walk, but when they came to the house he would not go in. He had letters to write, he said, and he wanted to get them off his mind.

"You do not believe me," he laughed; "you believe that we Easterns are all indolent, shiftless. But no, even I can be most industrious at times. Why, while I have been in London, I have worked harder than an Arab."

"Do Arabs work hard?"

"Ah, you do not believe me. But I can assure you that my activity and industry have been wonderful. You would never guess why."

"Oh, yes," said Olive; "men of business work to make money."

"Ah, no, I think I have lost money; but that does not matter, because I have done what I set out to do. A rividerici, signorina."

"A domani."

"You know Italian then?"

"Only a little."

"But still a little. That is good. There is no other language when you know Italian. A domani, then. Shall I meet you here, and then we can walk to the links together?"

"No, I have some sick people to see before I start, but I shall be passing The Homestead at ten o'clock."

"That is well. Buona sera, Signorina."

But Signor Ricordo did not go back to The Homestead. Instead he walked up to the golf links, and spent hours on the great moors beyond. He seemed to be trying to weary himself, for he tramped from peak to peak, not seeming to care whither he was going. It was after midnight when he reached the house, nevertheless he met Olive with a smile the next morning.

"I shall think that the world has libelled your English weather," he said almost gaily, looking up at the blue skies. "And now for the battle. I feel as though to-day will create a new epoch in my life."

Olive answered him by a pleasant laugh, yet she wondered what he meant.