Nothing of importance happened during the golf match on the links. Neither Ricordo nor Olive played their best, and when the eighteenth green was reached both seemed relieved.

"What is the time, signore?" asked Olive.

"It is just after one, signorina."

"Then it is too late for me to go home to lunch," said Olive.

"That is well," said Ricordo. "You have made such excellent arrangements here that the matter of lunch can easily be dealt with. Moreover, unlike many clubs, you have not insisted on the idiotic rule of men and women lunching in different rooms. As a matter of fact, knowing we could not finish until one, I took the liberty of telling the good woman here that she must use her culinary skill on our behalf. I hope I have not done wrong."

Olive laughed gaily. The moorland air, the brightness of the skies, and the healthy exercise she had taken, had made her ravenously hungry.

"Rather, I must thank you heartily," she said; "but I must get back soon after lunch. I think I will send my caddy with a note, so that a trap may come for me."

"Is that essential?" asked Ricordo.

Olive looked at him questioningly.

"Because," continued Ricordo, "I had looked forward to the pleasure of walking back with you—if you will grant me so great an honour."

For a moment she hesitated. Had he been an Englishman she would have thought nothing of it. Her father had invited him to the house; he had also spoken of him as a kind of prince of merchants, and as a consequence there could be no doubt as to his position. Nevertheless, the fact that his education and associations had not been English, kept her from immediately acceding to his request.

"I ask this," went on Ricordo, "because I am afraid I conveyed a false impression on the night I was a guest at your father's house. Even a poor alien like myself does not desire to appear in a false light."

Her eyes met his as he spoke, and the force of her objections seemed to have fled.

"I thought you might wish to play again this afternoon," she said; "but if you wish, I shall be very glad."

An hour later they started to walk back to Vale Linden.

"I have sometimes wondered whether you do not regard me as somewhat of an enigma, signorina. You build a beautiful house for the benefit of people who need rest and change, but who cannot afford to pay for the comforts of a good hotel, and then you find that it is encumbered by a man who can abundantly afford to pay even for a few luxuries. No doubt that has struck you as strange?"

"I am afraid I have not thought much about it," replied Olive.

"Still, now that I have been received so kindly, I think I ought to explain. While I was in London I met a man, I had affairs with him, named—let me think, yes, Winfield. I grew tired of London, and he told me of this place, and of you. He described the work you had done here, and your gracious influence in the village and neighbourhood. His story appealed to me. I longed to see this beautiful Vale Linden, and being a lonely man without ties—well, that is all, I think, signorina. But now I am here, I want to stay—for a time at least. I recognise the fact that I can no longer benefit by—your boundless charity to the needy, and——"

"Surely, Signor Ricordo, there is no need for you to leave The Homestead."

"Yes there is, I could not stay there, when—well, many who may need your kindness are waiting for admission. But the place has come to have a charm for me, signorina. The quiet restfulness, the rustic beauty, the pure air—the associations have conquered me. I have wondered whether it would be possible for you to have me as a tenant, a neighbour. There is a delightful house which I am told was occupied by the steward of the late owner, and which is now empty. I would either buy it or rent it. Would it be possible, signorina?"

"That is scarcely a matter which falls within my province," replied Olive. "My father manages the estate. Since he has partially retired from business, it is his great hobby."

"Pardon me, signorina, everything depends on you."

"On me?"

"Yes. In this way. I could not think of remaining here unless the thought of it were pleasing to you. I am a lonely man, signorina, a man whose friends have either died or disappeared, and the thought of living in the same neighbourhood as yourself brings joy to me; but I would not do so, unless the scheme had your approbation."

They had by this time come to the road which led down the hill towards Vale Linden, and Olive was turning towards it, when Ricordo put out his hands as if to stop her.

"Pardon me," he said, "there is another path to Vale Linden. It is a little longer; it leads over the moors, and it is very beautiful. May I plead with you to take the longer road?"

Almost without demur, she consented. Although she did not realise it, the man had again exercised a kind of fascination over her. For the moment his will became hers. As for the man, he too seemed more than ordinarily interested. There was a tone of pleading and of intensity in his voice which she had never heard before. He was revealing himself in a new light.

"Thank you," he said, as they walked along the moorland path; "I almost hope that your consent to take the longer path augurs well for my plan. For your English life possesses a kind of charm for me, signorina. Yes, I who have known the East with its mystery, its great silent spaces, and its wondrous life, confess it. It has taught me the meaning of your English word 'home.' And I have never known it in practice, signorina—never."

"Still, I should think your life in the East must be very fascinating?"

A strange expression flashed across his face, but the smile on his lips was hidden by his thick moustache.

"Fascinating, great Allah, yes! I should like to tell you of it some time, signorina—the story of my life. It would interest you; yes, I promise you that it would interest you. It would take a long time, I am afraid, but you would listen, yes, you would listen to the very end."

He spoke quietly, but there was an intensity in his tone, and as he spoke Olive's heart began to beat more rapidly. Again she was reminded of Leicester, the man she had once promised to marry, and who had died more than six years before. She almost felt afraid, for it seemed to her that he was about to reveal some terrible secret. More than that, his personality impressed her, just as Leicester's did in the old days.

"Do you know," he went on, "why I did not accept your father's hospitality—that is, why I refused food and drink when I visited your house that night of the concert?"

"I suppose because you were not hungry, and, as you said, you never drink intoxicants," she said, uttering the first answer that came to her lips.

"No, it was not that. I know, too, that my action in refusing his cigars was rude. Even I know enough of your English laws of hospitality for that. I wanted to walk back with you to tell you about this. Shall I tell you?"

"I never thought of rudeness. I thought you meant what you said. Tell me, if you wish."

"I refused because I thought you resented my presence. Forgive me if I misinterpreted your face. You looked as though you were angry with me, and angry at what I said."

"I am exceedingly sorry if any act or look of mine gave pain to a guest in my father's house. Nothing could be further from my wishes. Neither did I interpret your refusal to accept what was offered in that light."

"And yet you grew pale when I refused to take whisky."

Olive was silent.

"I will admit I should have done that under any circumstances," he went on. "There the Mohammedans have much superiority over Christians. Not that I am a Mohammedan—what religion I believe in is Christian; but whisky, no. The depths into which it has dragged so many are too deep. Nevertheless you grew pale as I mentioned it. I wondered why."

Still Olive did not speak. The dead past was rising all around her again, and yet, strange to say, she did not think of Leicester with tenderness. Rather, although the memories associated with him rose thick and fast, he himself receded into the dim distance.

"I am glad I was mistaken," went on Ricordo; "and may I also accept that as your consent to my approaching your father, with a view to my becoming your neighbour?"

"I am sure, if you decide to live here, I hope you will be very happy," said Olive.

"Thank you; you make my sun shine brightly," was the response. "Whether I shall live here much, I cannot tell, for the East always claims the man upon whom it has cast its spell. And it has cast its spell upon me. Yes, some time I must claim your consent to tell you about my life there. I may, may I not?"

Before she realised what she was doing, she had given her consent. The man's presence suggested mysteries which she desired to know.

They had now turned down the hill, and were walking to Vale Linden. She was almost sorry that their walk would so soon come to an end, and she wished that he would tell her something of the past as they walked. But as they neared the village Signor Ricordo became moody and silent, so silent that their walk became almost painful. When they came to the park gates, however, he spoke again.

"It is kind of you to have pity on a lonely man," he said, "ay, and one who is a stranger, grown old before his time."

"Old, signore?" she said, with a laugh that was almost forced.

"Yes, old, signorina. How old should you think?"

She lifted her eyes to his face, and as she looked she felt a shiver pass through her.

"I should not like to hazard a guess," she said.

"No," he replied, "I suppose not; and yet, would you believe it, I am but little older than you. As I told you when first I saw you, I have been in hell; down in its very depths. And it ages a man—yes, it ages him, it gives him not years, but it gives him wisdom. Good-day, signorina."

Olive felt strangely depressed as he parted from her, and she found herself wondering at many things he said. Indeed, he was in her thoughts during the rest of the day. She was strangely interested in him, and yet she had a kind of fear of him. He was different from the rest of her world, different from her father, different from Herbert Briarfield, different from any of the guests who had come to the house. In many ways he reminded her of Leicester, and yet from that day Leicester became more and more a memory to her.

A few days later she heard that Signor Ricordo had taken rooms at Linden Manor Farm, a rather fine old house, occupied by a farmer by the name of Briggs. Meanwhile her father told her that Ricordo had approached him with a view of buying the house concerning which he had spoken to her. After this they met occasionally, but not often; nevertheless, each time they met, Olive became more deeply interested in him. The fact of his coming from the East became less and less an obstacle to their friendship, and John Castlemaine, while he could never break through a certain kind of reserve which seemed to surround the man who had come to live in their midst, confessed that he was the most interesting personality he had ever met.

As the weeks passed by Olive realised that the time would soon arrive when Herbert Briarfield would claim the right to plead his suit for the last time, and she began to wonder what she would say to him. Since the occasion when he had pleaded this privilege, he had not visited her home often; but every time she had seen him he had revealed more and more what a fine manly young fellow he was. Certainly, as her father had told her more than once, she would soon have to decide whether she would remain single all her life, or whether she would accept the love he offered. Yet, even as she thought of this, she wondered what Ricordo would say, and she thought also of the promise which she had made to Leicester on the night before the day on which they should have been married. For that promise still haunted her. She remembered the look on Leicester's face when he exacted the promise, and her assurance that, no matter what might happen, she would never marry another man was not to be easily forgotten.

One morning Ricordo sat on the lawn outside the Manor Farm House. He had breakfasted in the open air, and was now sitting on a garden chair smoking a cheroot. Ricordo was still regarded as a mystery in the neighbourhood. No one knew anything more about him now than they did on the day of his arrival, save that he was a partner in a great Eastern trading firm. That he had plenty of money was beyond question. He had opened an account at the nearest bank, and the manager had opened his eyes with astonishment when he saw the amount written on the cheque that was presented to him. Of course this sum was not mentioned to the world, but the clerks at the bank made no secret of the fact that their new client was enormously rich. But beyond this nothing was known. The best houses for miles around had opened their doors to him; but Ricordo never entered them. Beyond calling occasionally at The Homestead, and at the great house at Vale Linden, he showed no desire for companionship. If he had left at the end of two months he would have been spoken of as the mysterious Eastern gentleman who wore a fez, and while all sorts of surmises would have been offered concerning him, nothing would have been known.

Signor Ricordo.

This morning, Signor Ricordo lay back in his chair, smoking a cheroot. As usual, his eyes were nearly closed, and the same look of cynical melancholy rested on his face. Once or twice he picked up the previous day's paper, only to throw it aside. Evidently he had but little interest in the affairs of the country. Presently he lifted his head quickly, and saw the village postman coming towards him.

"Mornin', sur."

"Good-morning, Beel. Got some letters for me?"

"Sever'l, sur. 'Ere you be."

"Thank you."

The postman left him, and made his way towards the house.

For a time he sat deep in thought, not referring to the letters, but his face gave no indication as to whether his thoughts were pleasant or otherwise. It was as expressionless as the face of the sphinx. After a time he turned to the letters and glanced at them carelessly. At length, however, his eyes showed a glow of interest. He tore open one of the letters and read it almost eagerly:

"Dear Signor Ricordo,—At last I am able to accept your kind invitation, and by the time you get this I shall be on my way to Vale Linden. As I am starting by an early train I shall arrive at the station by one o'clock. I am simply longing to be amidst the beautiful scenery which you describe so eloquently, and more than all to have a long chat with you. All news when we meet.—Yours,

"A. Winfield."

"P.S.—I shall lunch in the train."

Certainly there was nothing in the letter of a striking nature, yet Ricordo walked up and down the lawn like one greatly moved.

"It is coming, it is coming," he repeated more than once.

Hastily scanning the other letters, he went into the house, and having carefully locked them in a safe, he went out on the moors and walked for many miles. By one o'clock he was at Vale Linden station, but no one would have judged that he had trudged a long distance that summer day. As he waited the coming of the train he looked as cool as if he had just dressed after a cold bath.

"Ah, Mr. Winfield, I am glad to see you," he said, as the train drew up at the platform, and Winfield got out. "I am rejoiced that you have come to participate in the beauties of this place. I owe you much for advising me to come here."

"It is good of you to ask me to come," said Winfield, "I find I can just squeeze out three days."

"Ah, longer, longer, my friend. By the way, are you tired? There is a man waiting here with a trap, if you would like to ride back."

"No, I would rather walk, if you don't mind," said Winfield. "The air is so delicious, and I have been in the railway carriage so long, that the thought of a country walk is enchanting."

"That is well. I will send back your luggage by the trap, and we will walk. A roundabout way, if you don't mind, over the moors."

"Just what I should like," said Winfield, and the two started.

While they were climbing a steep footpath which led to the moors, little was said, but presently, when they had reached an eminence from which they could see a vast expanse of country, both drew breath.

"This is glorious," said Winfield; "it makes me feel ten years younger."

"I want to take you the loneliest walk in the district, and the most striking, Mr. Winfield," said Ricordo. "It will mean eight miles to my farmhouse that way; do you mind?"

"The longer the better," said Winfield. "What a glorious sight! Look at the roll of hill and dale, think of the glory of furze and heather! And the air is like some fabled elixir of life. You must be very happy here, signore."

"As happy as Lucifer when he was cast out of Paradise," said the other calmly.

Winfield looked at him curiously.

"You will have your joke," he laughed.

"I never joke," said the other.

"By the way," went on Winfield, "have you met the guardian angel of this place? You stayed at her home of rest for some time. I am told that she often visits it. Surely you must have seen her?"

"Yes, I have seen her."

"Well, and what is your impression? I knew her slightly, years ago."

"And what do you think of her?"

A shadow passed Winfield's face.

"I saw her under unpleasant circumstances," he said. "I am afraid I am not able to judge fairly."

"I have heard," said Ricordo slowly, "that she is a woman with a history. Gossips have it that she had an unhappy love affair years ago. Is it true? Not that I pay much attention to gossip; but I thought you might know."

"Yes, I am afraid there is some truth in it."

"Tell me, amico mio."

Winfield was silent a second.

"Are you interested in her?" he asked.

The other shrugged his shoulders.

"In a way, yes. I live on her lands; she is—well, the good fairy of the district. Yes, I am interested."

"I see no reason why I should not tell you," replied Winfield. "It is a matter of six years ago now, and the man is dead."

"Dead, eh? Who was he?"

"A fellow by the name of Radford Leicester."

"A good fellow? A pattern young man, eh?"

"No; anything but that. Nevertheless I liked him. In many respects I suppose I was his best friend—perhaps his only friend. But there, I'll tell you. Leicester was a cynic, a drunkard, a man who, while I believe he lived a clean, straight life, laughed at morality and truth and virtue. A drunkard, did I say? Well, that is true and false at the same time. He was a slave to drink, and yet he never appeared drunk. Well, he had brilliant gifts, was a fine speaker, a close reasoner, and every one believed that if he would give up his vice, he might become a great man. As I said, he believed in nothing. He was an atheist, and scorned virtue. One night I was sitting with him, and two others, and he was taken to task for his——"

"Yes, I understand; go on."

"Well, he defended himself, and declared that there was no woman on earth but had her price. The other two chaps, Sprague and Purvis by name, defended the women. Then Leicester offered to make a wager that he, a kind of pariah as he was, could win any woman they liked to name, provided he was able to pay the price. Then I named Olive Castlemaine. Leicester then offered to stake £100 that he would win her. He said that although she knew him to be a drunkard, an atheist, a cynic, a despiser of women, he would win her, by making her believe he would give her a high place in the land. After he had won her, he was to——"

"What you call jilt her," suggested Ricordo, as he saw Winfield hesitate for a word.

"Exactly. Well, he did win her. The day of the wedding was arranged. Meanwhile, Sprague and Purvis believed he was simply seeking to win his wager. Indeed, he confessed as much to them a week or so before the wedding. For my own part, I believe that although Leicester began in grim jest, he ended by being deadly in earnest."

"Yes, go on, my friend," said Ricordo, as the other paused. "I am greatly interested in your story. More interested than you can imagine. I will tell you why presently."