THE next morning Webster waited until Dolores appeared and then accompanied her into the dining room for breakfast.

“Well, how did you pass your first night in Buenaventura?” she inquired, in the manufacture of breakfast conversation.

“Not very well. Jiggers bit me and woke me up, and finally I fell into a trance and had a vision—about you. After that I couldn't get to sleep again. I was fairly bursting to see you at breakfast and read your palm. I've just discovered a wonderful system.”

“Show me,” she flashed back at him, and she extended her little hand. He picked it up gravely and with the dull tine of a fork made a great show of tracing the lines on her palm.

“You are about twenty-four years old, and your ancestors were pure-bred Castilians who came from Madrid, crossing the Atlantic in caravels. Ever since the first Ruey landed on this coast the family has been identified with the government of the country in one way or another. Also, Scotch, French, and Irish blood has been infused into the tribe; your mother was an Irish woman. When you were quite a little girl, your father, Don Ricardo Ruey, at that time president of Sobrante, failed to suppress a revolution and was cornered in the government palace, which was set afire.

“Through the bravery and devotion of a cockney gentleman, Colonel Henry Jenks, an artillery officer in your father's army, you were saved from perishing in the burning palace. Colonel Jenks turned you over to his spouse, now known as Mother Jenks, with instructions to raise you a lydy, and Mother Jenks has carried out those instructions. Colonel Jenks and your father were executed, and Mother Jenks sent you to the United States to be educated. You had a brother, Ricardo Luis Ruey, older than yourself by seven or eight years, I should judge. In some mysterious manner you and your brother lost track of each other, and at the present moment he believes you perished in the flames that gutted the government palace.

“You are of a proud, independent nature; you work at something for a living, and inasmuch as you haven't been able to set aside a great deal of money from your earnings, you are planning to terminate your visit to your native land at an early date and return to the United States for the purpose of getting back to work. These plans, however, will never be consummated.

“Why? Because you are to be married to a nice man and live happily ever afterward; and about sixty days from now, if all goes well, I, John S. Webster, am going to introduce you to your long-lost brother Ricarda You will first see Ricardo riding at the head of his victorious rebel troops as he enters Buenaventura. He will be the next president of this wretched country, if, fortunately, he is not killed in the revolution he is now fomenting against his father's ancient enemy. Your brother does not know you are living, and it will be a proud and happy day for me when I bring him to you. In the interim, what do you purpose having for breakfast? Ham and eggs sunny side up, an omelette or a cereal?”

He released her hand and favoured her with the boyish grin that always had the effect of stripping the years from him as one strips the husk from a ripe ear of com. She was gazing at him in wide-eyed amazement.

“Oh, don't doubt me,” he pleaded. “It will all come out just as I have told you. Of course, I don't go in for telling fortunes very often; I'm a slow old horse to start, but once I sneak into the collar, something has to give.”

“Is my brother really alive?”

“He was as late as midnight last night. Do you recall the chap I saved from being assassinated in New Orleans?”

“Yes.”

“Your worthy brother. And do you recall the chauffeur whose passage to this port I was forced to pay?”

“Yes.”

“The same individual. I sent him ashore in the launch with Billy, and he has been housed at El Buen Amigo, but left early this morning for the back-country to open a recruiting office.”

“And you have known this all along and wouldn't tell me?” she reproved him.

“Didn't discover it until after I had left him last night; then I put two and two together and made four.”

“Oh, I can hardly believe it.”

“I never lie.”

“Never?”

“I mean on serious matters. And you needn't cry about it, Miss Ruey. I do not purpose being the bearer of welcome news and having my breakfast ruined for my reward.”

She reached across the little table and squeezed his big brown hand impulsively. “You're the most wonderful man I ever knew. And does my poor brother know I am living, Mr. Webster?”

“No—and I'm not going to tell him. I think it will be much nicer to restore you to each other on the steps of the government palace on the day when the Ruey faction comes into its own again. That will make his victory all the sweeter. I am the innocent bystander who started this little drama, and by jingo, I want to finish it. Why, it has been years and years since I've had any real sport.”

“You're so kind!”

“Not at all. My discovery of your brother was as accidental as falling downstairs.” And he related to her his interview with Ricardo, whose statements, when compared with the information gleaned from Mother Jenks, had proved so illuminating. “By the way,” he continued, “where was Ricardo when your father's ship of state went on the rocks?”

“At school in a military academy in Kentucky. At least, so I was informed by my cousins here shortly after my arrival, and prior to losing caste with them because of my association, unchaperoned, with Billy.”

“It is a marvellous mix-up, which Ricardo can doubtless explain, Miss Ruey. I know he believes his sister perished with her father; Mother Jenks didn't know where he was and couldn't communicate with him—and there you are. However, little old Jack Fix-it will bring you together again in due course. In the interim, how about those eggs? Straight up—or flip 'em?”

She beamed across at him. “We are going to be such good, true friends, aren't we?” she urged. He almost shivered, but managed a hypocritical nod. “While we have only known each other twenty-four hours, it seems a great deal longer than that—probably because Billy has told me so much about you, and you're—so comfortable and easy to get acquainted with, and I—I can't very well express my gratitude for what you've done—for what you're going to do.” Her voice faltered; she smiled roguishly through the tears of her emotion. “If I were only Billy, now, I could put my arm across your shoulders and settle the matter by saying: 'Johnny, you old horsethief, you're all right.'”

“The best thing to do would be to cease puffing me up with importance. And now, before we climb out of the realm of romance and the improbable to the more substantial plane of things for breakfast, just one brief word of caution. Now that I have told you your brother lives and is in Buenaventura, forget it until I mention it again, because his presence here is his secret, not ours.”

“All right, Caliph,” she agreed. “I think I shall call you that hereafter. Like the late Caliph Haroun A! Raschid, it appears you have a habit of prowling around o' nights in queer places, doing good deeds for your subjects. But tell me about my brother. Describe him to me.”

“Not now. Here comes the head waiter with a cablegram for me, I think.”

That functionary came to their table and handed one of the familiar yellow envelopes to each of them.

“We'll excuse each other,” Dolores suggested. She read:

Go you if I lose. I like you fine.

You are a good, game little scout, and Jerome.

She glanced across at Webster, whose face was a conflicting study of emotions in which disappointment and amazement appeared to predominate. “You ancient scoundrel,” she heard him murmur.

“What ho, Caliph! Unpleasant news?” she ventured.

“Yes—and no. I had one of the finest jobs in the world all staked out—and now the boss cables me it's filled—by a better man.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Well—as soon as I've had my breakfast, I'm going to cable Neddy Jerome and tell him I'm satisfied—satisfied to stay here and satisfied he's a liar. You see, Miss Ruey, he objected vigorously to my coming here in the first place—wanted me to take a thirty-day vacation and then manage the Colorado Consolidated Mines Company, Limited, for him. I like Neddy and would have been glad to go to work for his company, but of course Billy comes first, and so I declined the offer. Later I changed my mind, and last night I cabled him I'd accept if he'd wait sixty days—possibly ninety; and now he replies that he's sorry, but the job is filled by a better man. That's why I know he's a liar.”

“I see. You figure there isn't a better mining engineer than you—eh, Caliph?”

He looked at her reproachfully. “No, but Neddy Jerome does, and I know he does because he has taken the trouble to tell me so more than once. And as a rule Neddy inclines toward the truth. However, it's just as well——” He paused, staring hard at her. “By the way, you foretold this! Why, this is amazing.”

She could now have wept with laughter. “Well”—soberly—“I told you some other things equally amazing, did I not?”

“Yes, you told me other things more or less interesting, but you foretold this. How do you account for that?”

“The witness declines to answer, on the ground that she may incriminate herself and be burned for a witch.”

“Remarkable woman!”

“You were about to remark that it is just as well——”

“That Neddy's reconciled to losing me, because since cabling him yesterday evening I've changed my mind again. I'm going to stay here now.”

“Indeed! Why?”

“Just to be obstinate. Apparently I'm not wanted here by the powers that be; so just to rile them I'm going to hang around Sobrante the way Grant hung around Richmond and argue the question with them. By the way, I see you received a cablegram also. Better news than mine, I hope.”

She nodded. “I have a little business deal on back home. Haven't got a great deal invested, but it looks as if I might make ten thousand dollars.”

He arched his eyebrows and favoured her with a little disapproving grunt. Sounded like the prospectus of a fake mining promoter—yes, by thunder, that was it. Dolores was a school teacher, and school teachers and doctors are ever the mainstay of a swindler's sucker list.

“You won ten dollars from me yesterday,” he challenged. “Bet you another ten I can tell you the nature of your investment.”

“Go you, if I lose!” Unconsciously she was learning the argot of the male of the species, as exemplified in Neddy Jerome's cablegram.

“It's a mining property.”

“You win. It is,” she answered truthfully, starting to open her purse.

“Quartz or placer?”

“I don't know. Explain.” *

He chuckled at her ignorance. “Quartz is goldbearing rock, and placer is gold-bearing gravel.”

“Then my mining property is placer, because it has lots of sand.”

“I knew it, I knew it,” he warned her solemnly, and he shook an admonitory finger at her. “Black sand, eh? Is the gold very fine?”

“I think it is.”

“Then you're stung good and deep—so don't delude yourself into thinking you have ten thousand dollars coming. I never knew a proposition for saving the fine gold in black sand that didn't turn out to be a fizzle. It's the hardest thing in the world to save. Now, listen: You tell me the name of the flim-flam artist that got you into this deal, and when I get back to the United States I'll investigate the company; if it's an out-and-out swindle, I'll take that promoter by the throat and choke your money out of him, the scoundrel! It is just these fly-by-night fellows that ruin the finest gambling game in the world and scare off investors in legitimate mining propositions.”

“Oh, you mustn't—really, Caliph. He's an old man, and I only did it to help him out.”

“There should be no sentiment in business, Miss Ruey.”

“Oh, well, let's be cheerful and hopeful, Caliph, and discuss a more important subject.” She was very serious now, for by her meddling she had, she realized, so arranged matters that at a time when John Stuart Webster's very life depended upon his immediate departure from Buenaventura, he was planning to stay and face the music, just to be obstinate. “You must reconsider your latest decision to remain in this country,” she insisted. “Your life may be the price of liberty of action, you know.”

“'Give me liberty or give me death,'” quoted Webster.

“But isn't Billy capable of developing the mine after you advance the cash?”

“I wouldn't advance him a cent for his mine until I had investigated it myself.”

“Then you should make some arrangements to safeguard yourself while making the investigation, and leave Sobrante immediately thereafter. Isn't that a sensible proposition?”

“Very—if I felt like leaving Sobrante. But I do not. If that mining concession is a potential winner, I'll have to stick around and make a winner out of it before I go away and leave Bill in charge. Besides, I'm worried about Bill. He's full of malarial fever, and last night I got thinking about him and decided to send him back to the Colorado mountains for a few months. This country is going to be in the throes of a revolution; the chances are we will not be able to do much with our property until the war is over, and I will be able to do that little. I want some regular doctors to work on Bill so he'll be fit when he gets back on the job.”

As a matter of fact, this idea of sending Billy to the United States had but that moment occurred to Jack Webster; he reflected now that this plan was little short of an inspiration. It would give Billy and Dolores an opportunity to marry and have a honeymoon; it would leave him free of her disturbing presence, and enable him to leave Sobrante when the Gearys should return. He resolved to speak to Billy about it.

Dolores's voice broke in upon his cunning reflections. “But Billy tells me you already have a fortune sufficient for the needs of a caliph without a court. Why risk your precious life to acquire more? Money isn't everything in life.”

“No, but the game is.”

“What game? Mining?”

“The game of life.”

“But this is the game of death.”

“Which makes life all the sweeter if I can beat the game. Perhaps I can better illustrate my point of view with a story. Some years ago I was sent to Arizona to examine a mining property and report upon it; if I advised its purchase, my principals were prepared to buy at my valuation. Well, when I arrived, I found a miserable shanty close to a shaft and dump, and in the shanty I found a weatherbeaten couple. The woman was probably forty but looked fifty. The man had never been anything but a hard-rock miner—four dollars a day had been the limit of his earnings in any one day until he stumbled on some float, traced it up, and located the claims I was there to examine and try to buy.

“His wife had been a miner's daughter, knowing nothing but drudgery and poverty and continuing that existence after marriage. For twenty years she had been darning her husband's socks, washing his clothes, and cooking his meals. Even after they uncovered the ledge, it wasn't worth any more than the country rock to them unless they could sell it, because the man had neither the money nor the ability to develop it himself. He even lacked the ability to sell it, because it requires real ability to unload any kind of a mine for a million dollars, and real nerve on the part of the man who buys. I examined the mine, decided it was cheap at a million dollars, and so reported to my principals. They wired me to close, and so I took a sixty-day option in order to verify the title.

“Well, time passed, and one bright day I rode up to that shanty with a deed and a certified check for a million dollars in my pocket; whereupon I discovered the woman had had a change of heart and bucked over the traces. No, siree! She would not sign that there deed—and inasmuch as the claim was community property, her signature was vitally necessary. She asked me so many questions, however, as to the size of the stamp mill we would install and how many miners would be employed on the job, that finally I saw the light and tried a shot in the dark. 'My dear Mrs. Skaggs,' I said, 'if you'll sign this deed and save us all a lot of litigation over this option you and your husband have given me, I'll do something handsome. I will—on my word of honour—I'll give you the exclusive boarding-house privilege at this mine.'”

“And what did she say, Caliph?”

“She said: 'Give me the pen, Mr. Webster, and please excuse my handwriting; I'm that nervous in business matters.'”

Dolores's silvery laughter rippled through the room. “But I don't see the point,” she protested.

“We will come to it presently. I was merely explaining one person's point of view. You would not, of course, expect me to have the same point of view as Mrs. Skaggs, of Arizona.”

“Certainly not.”

“All right! Listen to this! In 1907, at the height of the boom times in Goldfield, Nevada, I was worth a million dollars. On the first day of October I could have cashed in my mining stocks for a million—and I had a lot of cash in bank, too. But I'd always worked so hard and been poor so long that my wealth didn't mean anything to me. I wanted the exclusive privilege of more slavery, and so I staked a copper prospect, which later I discovered to consist of uncounted acres of country rock and about twenty-five dollars' worth of copper stain. In order to save a hundred dollars I did my own assessment work, drove a pick into my foot, developed blood-poison, went to the hospital, and was nice and helpless when the panic came along the middle of the month. The bank went bust, and my ready cash went with it; I couldn't give my mining stocks away. Everybody knew I was a pauper—everybody but the doctor. He persisted in regarding me as a millionaire and sent me a bill for five thousand dollars.”

“How perfectly outrageous! Why, Caliph, I would have let him sue me.”

“I would have, too—but I didn't. I induced him to settle for one hundred thousand shares of stock in my copper prospect. The par value was a dollar a share, and I was going to sell a block at ten cents, but in view of his high professional standing I let him have it for a nickel a share. I imagine he still has it. I bought back later all the other stock I sold, because the property was worthless, and in order to be a sport I offered him five hundred dollars for his block, but he thought I was trying to swindle him and asked five thousand.”

“Oh, Caliph!”

“Wonderful game, isn't it—this game of life. So sweet when a fellow's taking chances! Now that I am fairly prosperous again, the only thing in life that really matters is the uncertainty as to whether, when finally I do leave Sobrante, I shall ride to the steamship landing in a hack or a hearse.”

“But you could go in a hack this morning and avoid that uncertainty.”

“The millionaire drudge I told you of could have gone to five in a pretty villa on the Riviera, but she chose a miner's boarding-house.”

“Then why,” she persisted, “did you leave the United States with the firm intention of remaining in Sobrante indefinitely, change your mind before you were here eight hours, and cable this Neddy Jerome person you would return in sixty or ninety days—and the following morning decide to remain, after all!”

“My dear young lady, if I changed my clothes as often as I change my mind, the what-you-may-call-'em chaps that manufacture Society Brand clothes couldn't keep me dressed.”

“But why?”

“That,” he answered gravely, “is a secret.”

“Women delight to pry into men's secrets.”

“I know it. Had a friend once—married. Every night after dinner he used to sit and stare into the fire and his wife used to ask him what he was thinking about. He would look up at her owlishly and tell her it was something he couldn't explain to her, because she'd never understand it—and that was all he would tell her, although right frequently, I dare say, he felt like telling her something she could understand! She brooded over his secret until she couldn^t stand it any more, and one day she packed her duds and flew home to mother. He let her stay there three months, and finally one day he sent her a blueprint of what he'd been thinking about.”

“What was it?”

“An internal-combustion engine. You see, until she left him, he'd never been able to get set to figure out something in connection with the inlet valves——”

“Stop right there, Caliph. I'm rebuked. I'll let you get set to think——”

“I didn't mean that. You let me get set yesterday—and I figured it all out then—and last night—and a minute ago. I don't care to do any more thinking to-day. Please talk to me.”

“And you refuse to tell me why you cabled your friend Jerome?”

“You will never know. I told you it's a secret.”

“Bet you I find out.”

“How much? That ten thousand dollars you expect to make from the flour-gold in your black-sand claim? And by the way, ten dollars, please. I won it for guessing you were interested in a mining proposition.”

She returned to him the bill she had won from him the day before. “Ten thousand dollars suits me. Of course I haven't got the money just now, and this is what Billy calls a finger-bet, but if I lose, I guarantee to pay. Are we betting even money? I think that is scarcely fair. Under the circumstances I should be entitled to odds.”

“Nothing doing! No odds on a bet of this nature to a seeress who has already jarred me from soul to vermiform appendix by making good! You know too blamed much already, and how you discovered, it is a problem that may drive me crazy yet.”

After breakfast they repaired to the veranda to await the result of Webster's experiment with Don Juan CafetÉro. Sure enough, the wreck had again returned; he was seated on the edge of the veranda waiting for them; as they approached, he held up a grimy, quivering hand, in the palm of which lay—a five-dollar gold-piece.

“What?” Mr. Webster said, amazed. “Still unchanged!”

“I thried to change it at half a dozen cantinas,” Don Juan wheezed, “but divil a bit av systim did any av thim have. Wan offered this in spiggoty money an' the other offered that, an' sure if I'd taken the best that was offered me in exchange, ye might have t'ought I'd tuk more nor wan dhrink.”

“Bravo! Three long, loud, raucous cheers for Don Juan CafetÉro!” Dolores cried. “That's just exactly what he expected you to do, Don Juan.”

“Give a dog a bad name, an' 'twill shtick to him,” the derelict replied resignedly.

“Was it a terrible task to come back without a drink, Don Juan?”

He shivered. “A shky-blue kangaroo wit' a pink tail an' green ears chased me into this patio, ma'am.”

“You're very brave, Cafferty. How does it feel to win back your self-respect?” Webster asked him.

“Beggin' the young leddy's pardon—it feels like hell, sor.”

“Caliph, don't be cruel,” Dolores pleaded. “Call a waiter and give Don Juan what you promised him.”

So Webster went into the hotel bar and returned presently with a bottle of brandy and a glass, which he filled and held out toward Don Juan. “One of the paradoxes of existence, Don Juan,” he observed, “lies in the fact that so many of the things in life that are good for us are bad for us. This jolt will disperse the menagerie and quiet your nerves, but nevertheless it is a nail in your coffin.”

Don Juan proved himself a true Hibernian soldier of misfortune by jesting under fire. “Whilst ye have the hammer in yer hand, sor, dhrive in another,” he pleaded. Webster declined, however, and returned the bottle to the bar, where he had it marked for Don Juan and set aside, for it was his opinion, evolved from a vast experience with hard-drinking miners, that the only cure for poor, diseased Don Juan lay in a judicious application of hair from the dog that had bitten him.

“And this is another reason why I must stay here longer than I intended,” he said softly to Dolores, indicating Don Juan with his thumb. “He's just about ready to be poured back into the bottle, and I'm going to see if I cannot restore him to his original solid state. Experiments in chemistry always did fascinate me.”

He bade her adieu, and accompanied by his protÉgÉ, strolled uptown on a shopping tour. Here he outfitted Don Juan neatly but not gaudily and added to his own personal effects two high-power sporting rifles, three large-calibre automatic pistols, and a plentiful supply of ammunition—after which he returned to the hotel, first having conducted Don Juan to a barber shop and given him instructions to report for orders and his midday drink the instant he should have acquired the outward evidences of respectability.

At the hotel Webster found two messages awaiting him. One was from Billy Geary, up at San Miguel de Padua, advising him that everything was in readiness for a trip to the mine; the other was a note from Ricardo Ruey, but signed with his alias of Andrew Bowers. Webster read:

My Dear Friend:

Permit me to congratulate you on your marksmanship last night and to commend your forbearance in winging a gent where killing was not only justified but to be encouraged. You have, so I am authoritatively informed, completely buffaloed your two gentlemen. They cannot, in our own classical English, “quite make you.”

However, this letter is not all gossip. A certain higher-up has at length been convinced that it would be extremely inadvisable to eliminate you now. It has been pointed out to this person that you are a prom. cit. up in your neck of the woods and dangerous to monkey with—personally and because such monkeying may lead to unpleasant complications with your paternal government. A far more artistic and effective way of raising hell with you has been suggested to this higher-up individual, and he has accepted it. Indeed, the plan pleased him so much that he laughed quite heartily. Really, it is quite diabolical, but remember, he who laughs last laughs best—and I'm the villain in this sketch.

Barring accidents, my dear Webster, you are good for at least six weeks of existence. Beyond that I dare not guarantee you.

Thine,

Andrew Bowers.

“That makes it nice,” the recipient of this comforting communication soliloquized. He went up to his room, packed a duffle-bag with such belongings as he would find necessary during a prolonged stay in the mountains, and at luncheon was fortunate enough to find Dolores in the dining room when he entered. Again she motioned him to the vacant chair opposite to her.

“I'm going up to San Miguel de Padua this afternoon,” he announced as he took his seat. A look of extreme anxiety clouded her lovely face, and he noticed it. “Oh, there's no risk,” he hastened to assure her. “That scamp of a brother of yours, through his friends in high places, has managed to get me a reprieve.” He handed her Ricardo's letter.

She looked up, much relieved, from her perusal. “And how long do you expect to be gone, Caliph?”

“Quite a while. I'll be busy around that dratted concession for a couple of weeks, surveying and assaying and what-all; then, while waiting for our machinery and supplies to arrive from the United States, I shall devote my spare time to hunting and fishing and reforming Don Juan CafetÉro. The cool hills for mine.”

“What a selfish, unsociable programme!” she reflected. “I wonder if it will occur to him to come down here once in a while and take me for a drive on the Malecon and talk to me to keep me from dying of ennui before I meet Ricardo. I'll wait and see if he suggests it.”

However, for reasons best known to himself and the reader, Mr. Webster made no such interesting suggestion; so she decided that while he was tremendously nice, he was, nevertheless, a very queer man and thoroughly exasperating.

Before leaving that day Webster turned over to her a steamer-trunk filled with books, and with something of the feeling of a burglar about to rob a bank, asked her if she would care to ride down to the station with him. “Sort of speeding the parting guest, you know,” he explained comfortably, for somehow, at that moment, he felt a trifle untrue to Billy Geary. Of course, Dolores, having nothing more pleasurable or exciting to do, would—and did. At the station they found Don Juan waiting in charge of the baggage.

Just before the train pulled out John Stuart Webster took Dolores's hand. “Good-bye, Seeress,” he said very soberly. “The trail forks here for the first time—possibly the last, although I'll try to be on hand to make good on my promise to present you to your brother the day he occupies the palace. However, if I shouldn't be in town that day, just go up and introduce yourself to him. It's been wonderful to have met you and known you, even for such a brief period. I shall never forget you and the remarkable twenty-four hours just passed.”

“I shall not soon forget them myself, Caliph—nor you,” she added. “Haven't you been a busy little cup of tea, Caliph! Within twenty-four hours after landing, you have changed your mind three times, lost the best job in the world, had your fortune told, been marked for slaughter, acquired a new-found friend and commenced actively and with extraordinarily good results the work of reforming him, soused a gentleman in the fountain, spurned another with the tip of your boot, rode with me around the Malecon and listened to the band concert, bundled poor Billy off to San Miguel de Padua, received a challenge to fight a duel, accepted it, had it rejected, engaged in a street fight and shot a man through the hand, discovered my brother presumed to be dead, and received a reprieve from your enemies, while they perfect new plans for destroying you. Really, you are quite a caliph.”

“Oh, there's a dash of speed in the old horse yet, Miss Ruey,” he assured her laughingly. “Now listen: don't tell anybody about your brother, and don't tell Billy about my adventures since he left for San Miguel de Padua.”

“But I'm not liable to see Billy——”

“Yes, you are—extremely liable. I'm going to send him back to you as soon as I can spare him, because I know you'll be lonesome and bored to death in this lonesome town, and Bill is bully good company. And I don't want you to tell him about the mess I'm in, because it would only worry him; he can't aid me, and the knowledge that I was in any danger, real or fancied, would be sufficient to cause him to rebel against my plans for his honeym—for his vacation. He'd insist on sticking around to protect me.” He looked down at her little hand where it rested in his, so big and brown and hard; with his free hand be patted her hand paternally. “Good-bye, Seeress,” he said again; and turning to the steps, he leaped aboard just as the train started to move out of the station.

“Go—good-bye—Caliph,” she called mournfully. Then to herself: “Bless his heart, he did remember I'd be terribly lonely, after all. He isn't a bit queer, but oh, dear, he is so exasperating. I could bump his kind old head against a wall!” She turned her back on the train, fearful that from where he clung on the steps he could, even at that distance, see the sudden rush of tears that blinded her. However, Don Juan Cafe-tÉro, with his rubicund nose to the window of the last coach, did see them—saw her grope toward the carriage waiting to take her back to the hotel.

“Why, shure, the poor darlint's cryin',” he reflected. “Be the Great Gun an Athlone! Shure I t'ought all along 'twas Billy Geary she had her eye on—God love him! An' be the same token, didn't she tell me I was to shtay sober an' take care av Masther Webster? Hah-hah-a-a-a! Well! I'll say nothin' an' I'll be neuthral, but—but—but——”

From which it may be inferred that romance was not yet burned out of Don Juan's Gaelic soul. He would be “neuthral,” but—but—but—he reserved the right to butt in!