All his belongings were in order; his clothes hung up carefully in the wardrobe, just as he had undressed, assisted by his faithful valet.
And that poor unfortunate—how he sobbed and beat his portly bosom over the grief which was racking the loyal African heart. The Duke of Alva went to the captain to inquire about the terrible affair.
"Yes, sir. He is gone. A pleasant, courteous fellow, too. Always minded his own business, never complained. It's too bad. Too bad. And that letter he left—it nearly broke my heart—and I'm a gruff old sea-dog, and have seen many a tragedy in my years as a master!"
The captain wiped his eye with the back of his hand.
The Duke fingered his cane nervously.
"But the note, sir. What did that say? As the cousin of her exalted Highness, Princess Maria Theresa of Aragon, I insist on knowing about this strange person. He was in my cousin's employ. She is entitled to know what sort of a person he was."
The captain glared angrily at the Duke.
"I am the commander of this vessel, sir. On the high sea, I am in supreme control, and know how to run the Mauretania without advice from a bloody Spanish popinjay! I will turn that letter over to the authorities when we land." The captain spluttered indignantly.
"They will meet the boat as the pilot comes on board. I sent them a wireless!" cried the Duke.
"How dare you go over my head, in any matter of discipline on this vessel?" cried the raging commander. "What do you mean by such a thing? I am the one to warn."