The girl entered first, and discovered that her family and their guest were not on the veranda, whereat she turned and gave her hand to Farrel.

“The butler will bring you some dinner to your room.  We breakfast at eight-thirty.  Good-night.”

“Thank you,” he replied.  “I shall be deeper in your debt if you will explain to your father and mother my apparent lack of courtesy in failing to call upon them this evening.”

He held her hand for a moment.  Then he bowed, gracefully and with studied courtesy, cap in hand, and waited until she had turned to leave him before he, in turn, betook himself to his room.

IX

It was as he had left it.  He smiled sadly as he noted his civilian clothes laid out on the bed.  However, he would not wear them to-night.  A little later, while he was hanging them in the clothes-press, a propitiatory cough sounded at the door.  Turning, he beheld the strangest sight ever seen on the Rancho Palomar—­a butler, bearing a tray covered with a napkin.

“Good-evening,” quoth Don Miguel civilly.  “Set it down on the little table yonder, please.  May I inquire why you bear the tray on your left hand and carry a pistol in your right?”

“Your servant, the man Pablo, has threatened my life, sir, if I dared bear your dinner to you, sir.  He met me a moment ago and demanded that I surrender the tray to him, sir.  Instead, I returned to the kitchen, possessed myself of this pistol, and defied him, sir.”

“I apologize for Pablo, and will see to it that he does not disturb you again—­er—­”

“Murray, sir.”

“Thank you, Murray.”

The butler was about to advance into the room and set the tray on the table as directed, when an unexpected contretemps occurred.  A swarthy hand followed by a chambray-clad arm was thrust in the door, and the pistol snatched out of Murray’s hand before the latter even knew what was about to transpire.  Pablo Artelan stepped into the room.

“Vamos!  Go!” he ordered, curtly, and relieved the astonished butler of the tray.  Murray glanced at Don Miguel.

“Perhaps you’d better go,” Don Miguel suggested, weakly.  “Pablo is a trifle jealous of the job of waiting on me.  We’ll iron everything out in the morning.  Good-night, Murray.”

“Buenas noches, mono mio,” Pablo grunted.

“I have a slight knowledge of the Spanish tongue, sir,” Murray protested.  “This blackamoor has insulted me, sir.  Just now he said, in effect, ‘Good-night, monkey mine.’  Earlier in the evening, he attempted to murder Mr. Parker’s guest, Mr. Okada.”

“It’s a pity he didn’t succeed,” Don Miguel replied, and drew a dollar from his pocket.  “You are very kind, Murray, but hereafter I shall not require your attendance.  Pablo, give Murray his pistol.”

Pablo returned the weapon.