It was twenty-five minutes past eight when he concluded his leisurely toilet; so he stepped out of his room, passed round two sides of the porched patio, and entered the dining-room.  The long dining-table, hewed by hand from fir logs by the first of the Noriagas, had its rough defects of manufacture mercifully hidden by a snow-white cloth, and he noted with satisfaction that places had been set for five persons.  He hung his hat on a wall-peg and waited with his glance on the door.

Promptly at eight-thirty, Carolina, smiling, happy, resplendent in a clean starched calico dress of variegated colors, stepped outside the door and rang vigorously a dinner-bell that had called three generations of Noriagas and an equal number of generations of Farrels to their meals.  As its musical notes echoed through the dewy patio, Murray, the butler, appeared from the kitchen.  At sight of Farrel, he halted, puzzled, but recognized in him almost instantly the soldier who had so mysteriously appeared at the house the night before. El Mono was red of face and obviously controlling with difficulty a cosmic cataclysm.

“Sir,” he announced, respectfully, “that Indian of yours has announced that he will shoot me if I attempt to serve breakfast.”

Farrel grinned wanly.

“In that event, Murray,” he replied, “if I were you, I should not attempt to serve breakfast.  You might be interested to know that I am now master here and that, for the present, my own servants will minister to the appetites of my guests.  Thank you for your desire to serve, but, for the present, you will not be needed here.  If you will kindly step into the kitchen, Carolina will later serve breakfast to you and the maids.”

“I’m quite certain I’ve never heard of anything so extraordinary,” Murray murmured.  “Mrs. Parker is not accustomed to being summoned to breakfast with a bell.”

“Indeed?  I’m glad you mentioned that, Murray.  Perhaps you would be good enough to oblige me by announcing breakfast to Mr. and Mrs. Parker, Miss Parker, and their guest, Mr. Okada.”

“Thank you, sir,” Murray murmured, and departed on his errand.

The first to respond to the summons was Kay.  She was resplendent in a stunning wash-dress and, evidently, was not prepared for the sight of Farrel standing with his back to the black adobe fireplace.  She paused abruptly and stared at him frankly.  He bowed.

“Good-morning, Miss Parker.  I trust that, despite the excitement of the early part of the night, you have enjoyed a very good rest.”

“Good-morning, Don Miguel.  Yes; I managed rather well with my sleep, all things considered.”

“You mustn’t call me ‘Don Miguel,’” he reminded her, with a faint smile.  “I am only Don Miguel to the Indians and pelados and a few of my father’s old Spanish friends who are sticklers for etiquette.  My father was one of the last dons in San Marcos County, and the title fitted him because he belonged to the generation of dons.  If you call me, ’Don Miguel,’ I shall feel a little bit alien.”