Hereupon Monkhouse drained his already empty cup, the sign that another sirocco was sweeping his throat.  His mind wandered until it was brought:  “Many a man’s soul has filtered up through salt-water off these shores, lad, because he talked less of his memories than his troubles—­but you won’t betray me, boy!...  My Gawd, lad, to have C’lestin’ in the hold under ’me feet—­as he wanst had me—­but let that pass—­or lyin’ deeper still under the Savonarola with the fishes tuggin’ at his carcass.  Ah, ’tis deep fathims under the Savonarola, me lad——­”

Bedient had not been listening for a moment.  A carometa was moving slowly toward him, down the Calle Real, and he fancied the flutter of a handkerchief from its side window.  It was nearly noon.  The dazzle of sunlight upon the glass of the carometa was in his eyes, so he could not see the face within, but a slim hand signaled again.  The vehicle approached with torturing slowness until the dazzle nickered out and he hurried forward to greet Miss Mallory, whose face blanched at the sight of him.

“You look as if you would fall!” she whispered.  “But I’m so glad to see you again——­”

“I was just going to say it....  It’s been dull—­and I haven’t done——­” He opened the door of the carometa.

“Quickly, they’re watching from your house,” she managed to say between commonplaces, “pick up that crumpled letter at my foot!...  But it won’t do for you to follow the suggestion in it—­you’re not able!”

“If there’s anything to do, I’m able,” he declared, tucking the paper into the hollow of his hand.

“We miss you at The Pleiad,” she said with her usual animation.  “I wish I had time for a good talk now, but I’m actually rushed to-day.  I’ll see you again, though——­”

Bedient sauntered back smiling, and sat down with Monkhouse for a little space.  The eyes he saw were large, red-rimmed and troubled; tales and conspiracies flagged miserably.  Bedient chaffed him for having become incoherent, and left shortly for his own room, where he pressed out two of the thinnest possible sheets of paper, closely written on both sides, and made them his own to the least detail: 

     DEAR MR. BEDIENT: 

I hardly know how to begin, I am so excited and have so much to say. (The letter was dated less than two hours before.) Senor Rey, the Glow-worm, the couple known as “the Sorensons,” Mr. Framtree and myself are sailing to-night on the Savonarola.  There will also be Chinese, probably three, two to manage the yacht and one for the cabin.  I’m not quite sure, but I think we are to have supper aboard.  I have been aboard the yacht.  The cabin takes up a large part of the hold.  There are two doors forward.  The one to the left opens into the galley, and the one to the right opens into the forecastle, where there are three berths for the crew, a few ship’s stores, piles of cordage,