“Right; it is a spade guinea—­a pocket piece I’ve carried for years.  You’ve heard, no doubt, of vital things turning upon the tossing of a coin.  Well, if you see me toss this coin to-morrow, something of that sort will occur.  It will be tossed up in the midst of a riddle, Major; when it comes down it will be a riddle no longer.”

Then he opened the door, closed it after him, and, before the Major could utter a word, was gone.

CHAPTER XXIX

The promise was so vague, so mystifying, indeed, so seemingly absurd, that the Major did not allow himself to dwell upon it.  As a matter of fact, it passed completely out of his mind; nor did it again find lodgment there until it was forced back upon his memory in a most unusual manner.

Whatsoever had been the result of what Cleek had called his “night prowling,” he took nobody into his confidence when he and the Major and the Major’s son and Senorita Rosario met at breakfast the next day (Zuilika, true to her training and the traditions of her people, never broke morning bread save in the seclusion of her own bed-chamber, and then on her knees with her face towards the east) nor did he allude to it at any period throughout the day.

He seemed, indeed, purposely, to avoid the Major, and to devote himself to the Spanish woman with an ardour that was positively heartless, considering that as they two sang and flirted and played several sets of singles on the tennis court, Zuilika, like a spirit of misery, kept walking, walking, walking through the halls and the rooms of the house, her woeful eyes fixed on the carpet, her henna-stained fingers constantly locking and unlocking, and moans of desolation coming now and again from behind her yashmak as her swaying body moved restlessly to and fro.  For to-day was memorable.  Five weeks ago this coming nightfall Ulchester had flung himself out of this house in a fury of wrath, and this time of bitter regret and ceaseless mourning had begun.

“She will go out of her mind, poor creature, if something cannot be done to keep her from dwelling on her misery like this,” commented the housekeeper, coming upon that restless figure pacing the darkened hall, moaning, moaning—­seeing nothing, hearing nothing, doing nothing but walk and sorrow, sorrow and walk, hour in and hour out.  “It’s enough to tear a body’s heart to hear her, poor dear.  And that good-for-nothing Spanish piece racing and shrieking round the tennis court like a she tom-cat, the heartless hussy.  Her and that simpering silly that’s trotting round after her had ought to be put in a bag and shaken up, that they ought.  It’s downright scandalous to be carrying on like that at such a time.”

And so both the Major and his son thought too, and tried their best to solace the lonely mourner and to persuade her to sit down and rest.

“Zuilika, you will wear yourself out, child, if you go on walking like this,” said the Major solicitously.  “Do rest and be at peace for a little time at least.”