As Okada emerged from the dining-room into the patio, Pablo entered from the rear gate, riata in hand; as the Japanese crossed the garden to his room in the opposite wing of the hacienda, Pablo made a deft little cast and dropped his loop neatly over the potato baron’s body, pinioning the latter’s arms securely to his sides.  Keeping a stiff strain on the riata, Pablo drew his victim swiftly toward the porch, round an upright of which he had taken a hitch; in a surprisingly brief period, despite the Jap’s frantic efforts to release himself, Pablo had his man lashed firmly to the porch column, whereupon he proceeded to flog his prisoner with a heavy quirt which, throughout the operation, had dangled from his left wrist.  With each blow, old Pablo tossed a pleasantry at his victim, who took the dreadful scourging without an outcry, never ceasing a dogged effort to twist loose from his bonds until his straining and flinching loosed the ancient rusty nails at top and bottom of the upright, and, with a crash, the Oriental fell headlong backward on the porch, as a tree falls.  Thereupon, Pablo kicked him half a dozen times for good measure, and proceeded to roll him over and over along the porch toward his room.  Eventually this procedure unwound him from the riata; Pablo then removed the loop, and Okada staggered into his room and fell, half fainting, on his bed.

His honor now quite clean, Pablo departed from the patio.  He had been less than five minutes on his mission of vengeance, and when John Parker and his wife came out of the dining-room, the sight of the imperturbable old majordomo unconcernedly coiling his “twine” roused in them no apprehension as to the punishment that had overtaken Okada.

Having finished their luncheon—­a singularly pleasant tete-a-tete—­Don Mike and Kay joined Mr. and Mrs. Parker.  At once Farrel’s glance marked the absence of the porch column.

“I declare,” he announced, with mock seriousness, “a portion of my veranda has given way.  I wonder if a man could have been tied do it.  I heard a crash, and at the time it occurred to me that it was a heavy crash—­heavier than the weight of that old porch column would produce.  Mr. Parker, may I suggest that you investigate the physical condition of our Japanese friend?  He is doubtless in his room.”

Parker flashed his host a quick glance, almost of resentment, and went to Okada’s room.  When he returned, he said soberly: 

“Pablo has beaten the little fellow into a pitiable condition.  He tied him to that porch column and flogged him with a quirt.  While I cannot defend Okada’s action in releasing Loustalot, nevertheless, Mr. Farrel—­” Don Mike’s black eyes burned like live coals.  “Nevertheless—­I—­well—­” Parker hesitated.

Don Mike’s lips were drawn a trifle in the ghost of a smile that was not good to see.

“I think, sir,” he said softly, distinctly, and with chill suavity, “that Mr. Okada might be grateful for the services of the excellent Murray, if the potato baron is, as I shrewdly suspect he will be, leaving within five minutes.”