Antonio laughed harshly.  “The next time, milord, I shall take him—­so—­and wring his neck!” His laugh became a snarl as he turned.  “Get up now, you—­you son of a pig, and go back to your work!”

“Easy!  Easy!” said Saltash, with a smile.  “We don’t talk to the English like that, Antonio,—­not even the smallest and weakest of them.  Let’s have a look at this specimen—­with your permission!” He bent over the huddled figure.  “Hold up your head, boy!  Let me see you!”

There was no movement to obey, and he laid a hand upon the quivering shoulder and felt it shrink away convulsively.

“I believe you’ve damaged him,” he said, bending lower.  “Here, Tommy!  Hold up your head!  Don’t be afraid!  It’s a friend.”

But the narrow figure only sank down a little lower under his hand.

“His name is Toby,” said Antonio with acidity.  “A dog’s name, milord, and it fits him well.  He is what you would call a lazy hound.”

Saltash paid not the slightest attention to him.  He was bending low, his dark face in shadow.

“Don’t be afraid!” he said again.  “No one is going to hurt you.  Come along!  Let’s look at you!”

His hold tightened upon the shrinking form.  He began to lift it up.

And then suddenly there came a sharp struggle between his hands as lacking in science as the fight of a wild animal for freedom, and as effectual.  With a gasping effort the boy wrenched himself free and was gone.  He went like a streak of lightning, and the two men were left facing one another.

“What a slippery little devil!” commented Saltash.

“Yes,” said Antonio vindictively, “a devil indeed, milord!  And I will have no more of him.  I will have no more.  I hope he will starve!”

“How awfully nice of you, Antonio!” said Saltash lightly.  “Being the end of the season, he probably will.”

Antonio smacked his red lips with relish.  “Ah, probably!  Probably!” he said.

CHAPTER II

ADIEU

It was growing late and the fete was in full swing when Saltash sauntered down again under the cypress-trees to the water’s edge.  The sea was breaking with a murmurous splashing; it was a night for dreams.

In the flower-decked bandstand an orchestra of stringed instruments was playing very softly—­fairy-music that seemed to fill the world with magic to the brim.  It was like a drug to the senses, alluring, intoxicating, maddeningly sweet.

Saltash wandered along with his face to the water on which a myriad coloured lights rocked and swam.  And still his features wore that monkeyish look of unrest, of discontent and quizzical irony oddly mingled.  He felt the lure, but it was not strong enough.  Its influence had lost its potency.

He need not have been alone.  He had left the hotel with friends, but he had drifted away from them in the crowd.  One of them—­a girl—­had sought somewhat palpably to keep him near her, and he had responded with some show of ardour for a time, and then something about her had struck a note of discord within him and the glamour had faded.