The Count struck a match and lighted his cigar with the air of a connoisseur.
“I am always glad,” he said conversationally, “to meet any one who knows Mallorca. It--was my home. Perhaps you knew?”
And through the blue smoke the quick dark eyes flashed a glance.
“I saw your name--on the map,” returned Fitz.
The Count gave a little Spanish deprecatory nod and wave of the hand, indicating that it was no fault of his that an historical name should have attached itself to him.
“Do you take whisky--and soda?” inquired the Count.
“Thanks.”
De Lloseta called the waiter and gave the order with a slight touch of imperiousness which was one of the few attributes that stamped him as a Spaniard. The feudal taint was still running in his veins.
“Tell me,” he went on, turning to Fitz again, “what you know of the island--what parts of it--and what you did there.”
In some ways Fitz was rather a simple person.